













^\.<^ 



jsPVsi.- 



^\, -oyji 



>-v- 






















































1\ \P "5 " ^ 



■in ^t 












..^^ 










POPULAR BOOKS' 

BY 

"BRICK POMEROT." 



I. — SENSE. 
J n.— NONSENSE. 
m. — SATUKDAT NIGHTS, 

rV". — GOLD-DUST. 

T. — BRICK DUST. 



-«•»- 



"The versatility of genius exhibited by this author has won for 

him a world-wide reputation as a facetious and a strong 

writer. One moment replete with the most 

touching pathos, and the next ftUl of 

fun, frolic, and sarcasm." 



All pablished tmiform with this volume, at $1.50, and Bent by mail, 
free of postage, on receipt of price, 



G. W. CABIiETON & CO.> Pabllshers* 
Mew York> 




%^-^u^ 



'■ Vk>;iso, sir, buy a bouqaot for your buttoiiliolc y '" — Sec invja -'0 



<v f^^7^ 



GOLD-DUST : 



FOR THB 



BEAUTIFYING OF LIVES AND HOMES. 



M. M. POMEROY, 

["brick" POMEROY,] * 

AUTHOR OF " SENSE," " NONSENSE," " SATURDAY NIOHTS," 
" BRICK-DUST," ETC. 



J»9^ 



^. 



NEW YORK : 

G-. "W. Ci^RLBTON" & CO., Publishers. 

LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO. 

MDCCCLXXI. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1871, by 

G. W. CARLETON & CO., 

In the oflrte of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



c ti f c a t { n ♦ 



To THOSE who are struggling to rise in the world — to those who 
have hours of sadness, and whose hearts at times are grief-laden — 
to those who would be happy and who would add to the happiness 
of others — to those who love each other, and who can say it is 
good to live for the good we can do through 

OUR FRIE ND S HIP, 

THIS voLrME of good intent is earnestly and respectfully dedicated 
by THE AUTHOR. 



COISTTENTS. 



Chapter fage 

I.— What an Artist does 13 

II.— Wanted to Go Back to God 25 

III.— Only Thinking 36 

I v.— What will We do Over There ? 48 

V. — A Life Lost 58 

VI.— To a poor Little Boy 72 

VII.— The Beauty of Life 82 

VIII.— Only a Widow... 90 

IX.— Patient in Suffering 98 

X.— Why She Died Ill 

XL— The Beauty of Better Work 122 

XII.— The Light on the Shore 129 

XIII.— Back to her Home 140 

XIV.— Dying as We Write 151 

XV.— Home, and Why it is Home 162 

XVI.— Working and AVaiting 170 

XVII.— Trying to be Rich 178 

XVIII.— Indeed a Golden Reward 189 

XIX.— Merely Opening a Door ; 199 

XX.— New- Year Presents for Little Ones 208 

XXL— About a Bright-eyed Baby 217 

XXII.— Thinking of the Past and the Future 228 

XXIIL— Not so Lonely after all 238 

XXIV.— Put them Away 249 

XXV. — How some Poor People are very Rich 256 

XXVI.— The Loved and the Absent 267 



PEEFACE. 



Twenty years ago! 

Almost broken-hearted, — bleeding from excessive punish- 
ment, a poverty-clutched boy lay under a fence near the. 
road-side. The hot summer sun beat down upon the lacer- 
ated back of the youth as he slept, overcome with pain, sor- 
row, despair, and dread of the future. "When he crept away 
to this hiding-place, to weep and suffer — to wonder why he 
too, could not have friends — to think of a mother in heaven, 
and to wish he might find with her a home and rest Over 
There, the future seemed dark, dismal, and treacherous, 
without one ray of light to guide through the wilderness sep- 
arating the shores of birth and death. 

The poor boy dreamed. A sweet, peaceful dream. The 
sun sank slowly behind the hills ; the evening breeze came 
With cooling breath, and there, resting on the growing grass, 
with head pillowed on one arm, this was his vision. 

The dark clouds seemed to roll away, leaving a golden 
reach of atmosphere far extending toward a distant city in 
the Heavens. From the crowd which seemed to hover over 
this city there came one with golden hair, radiant face, and 
look of love, seeming to float as if by the power of the will 
toward where slept the bleeding sufferer. 

I?: 



X Preface. 

Gently to his side she came — sweet kisses on his aching 
brow impressed — with love-light soothing hand, the tears 
she wiped from his eyes, and then whispered such words of 
love and hope that memory holds them ever as sacred keys 
to Eternal joys. 

These were her words : — 

"Over There is rest! Be patient, and suffer if need be 
while here, but trust in me. I went but fo prepare for your 
coming. Do not fear or faint. I will watch over, protect, 
and guide your feet safely amidst dangers, you little can 
imagine, even with the vision of dreams. Look upward. 
Look Over There, where suffering and anguish are unknown. 
Trust in me ; have faith and I will ever come when you are 
in danger or trouble. Fear not. I never will be long 
away. The clouds may gather black and thick between us, 
but I will come on wings of light, never leaving you long 
alone, as I used to come to the cradle wherein you slept, but 
' not in pain as now." 

Then she went away, and the poor boy with a sigh stretched 
out his hands, but she had gone. Then came a friend, walk- 
ing by chance that way. With words of cheer, touch of 
sympathy, and tender care, our wounds were dressed, and 
kindly sentences listened to. Thus spake that friend : — 

"Never mind for the past, its smarts and bruises. The 
future is as bright to-day as ever! Take courage. Be 
brave. Never despair, but with earnest endeavor live for the 
good of to-day and the joys of to-morrow. As others have 
been cruel to you, be not so to them. It is noble to forgive, 
and thus comes strength. Do not thank me, but help others 
when they are in trouble, and life will have more joys for 



Preface. xi 

you with each coming year. Do not thank me, but help 
others as you have been helped." 

The poor boy arose to walk in a new light. Kind words 
lifted him to renewed life. The good seed sown by the way- 
side took root. Our friend who thus spake has passed away, 
but oft, and oft, and oft the gentle spirit who came with such 
sweet gifts to flavor our dreams has smiled on us a 
thousand times since, as she ever does when we stop to talk 
with those who are to be found by the roadside, suffering, 
discouraged, but needing only kind words from a loving 
heart to waken them to new life and that courage which en- 
ables those who strive aright to walk toward the Eternal 
Gardens bearing their sheaves with them. 

God give us all strength to help others — and this is our 
work. M. M. P. 



MM^^ 






mM^B^w^ 


mm^mi^^ 





Gold Dust. 

CHAPTER I. 




WHAT AN ARTIST DOES. 

PAINTER outlines a picture. Ho 
prepares his canvas, then little by lit- 
tle develops the life he is calling into 
existence. Here a touch — bold, heavy, earnest ; 
there, a delicate tracing so fine and perfect one 
would hardly know his pencil or brush had 
ever touched the canvas. And so, little by lit- 
tle, day after day, he studies, watching the 
effects of his labor, ever striving to reach into 
the ideal, which is the struggle of the soul after 

the perfection sometime to be its own. See 

13 



14 What an Artist Does. 

with what care, what pains, what delicacy of 
touch he lifts his dream to life. If it be a form, 
he makes the drapery, the face, the features, 
the very look — the thought — till at last his 
work is finished. 

Then see how he cares for it, preserving it 
ever. He gives it light or shade — he gives it 
a frame and a place in his studio, where its 
beauties are ever before him, to please, to hap- 
pify, to suggest, to build him up in the glori- 
ous existence which is his. 

A bold, dashing lover wooes and wins. He 
talks, looks, acts love. He is at work on the 
heart of a woman — dearest of all pictures ! 
He touches and colors by kind words — by 
smiles, by little attentions — by those little 
heaven-born endeavors which make woman to 
worship man, and man worthy the adoration of 
the pure, trusting, beautiful, loving, and virtu- 
ous. He wins by his boldness — his delicacy 
— his power to create new sympathies. 



What an Artist Does. 15 



The painter finishes his picture. He throws 
it by in disdain. It does not please him. He 
tosses it into a rubbish-room. Dirt and dust set- 
tle upon his work — it becomes torn, scratched, 
abused, till it is no longer a picture, but a daub 
worth less than the canvas on which it was 
painted. The creator becomes the destroyer, 
and a part of his own life is lost ! 

The man who wooes and wins, is satisfied. 
He has won. The wife he sought is his. No 
more delicate touches — no more soul-warmed 
smiles — nO more of that life-giving, protecting, 
heart-sustaining eloquence of living, which so 
beautifies the picture. He is now an owner — 
has a right to do as he pleases. He puts his 
picture, his wife, into a cold, unfurnished home 
— he tosses the rubbish of innumerable flirta- 
tions and adventures over her — he pours the 
slops of dissipation and debauchery over the 



16 What an Artist 'Does. 

work he created — the heart he warmed into 
life, and slowly destroys by neglect, cruelty, 
and iinlsindness, the love he called forth, and 
then blames the innocent picture for not retain- 
ing its beauty, and its ability to win smiles and 
words of approval. 

As the skill of a painter gives life to his 
work, so does kindness and careful love give 
Heaven to united hearts. As each touch of 
the brush calls forth some new beauty, some 
new expression, some charming result; so does 
honest, noble, sober, manly love and devoted 
honesty of heart and person beautify and spirit- 
ualize united lives till there is before us a pic- 
ture so good, so soul-resting, so complete in 
its God-given sweetness that by this effort to 
devotionalize our lives we rise above clouds, 
storms, and temptations, and are given power 
such as angels enjoy. 

Thus are we inspired, ennobled, strength- 
ened, and glorified in our natures by that Great 



What an Artist Does. 17 

Power of Love Eternal, which rewards exactly 
in proportion to our allegiance, and made so 
strong for the good, that we live for centuries 
while the work we have planned is being done. 

To preserve this picture the painter need not 
live in a palace — no more need the earnest 
man who would build himself into the beautiful 
Eternal by this simple caring for himself and 
his own. The frame need not be better than the 
picture — the home need not be more an object 
of thought than the loved one in your keeping. 
We may dwell in a hovel — may reside in a 
mansion ; we only truly live in the heart. 

If we surround ourselves with the good, the 
pure, the loving, the virtuous, the refined, the 
truly suggestive of the beautiful, we drink in 
of our surroundings and become day by day 
better and more deserving. Others cannot 
make us good, but they can help, and they will 
if we but show that we are deserving. 

But if we do not try to improve and show 



18 What an Artist Does. 

ourselves worthy the good opinion of real 
friends, how can we expect them to take an in- 
terest in us. Those who sow little or much 
care not to scatter by the wayside or on hills of 
flint where the seed will die and bring no re- 
turn. 

Workingman — friend — brother. All the 
day you have toiled in a shop, fashioning metal 
or wood to certain designs. Or you have, 
with aching back, fitted shoes to feet of horses, 
that they might help man support his loved 
ones. Or you have with rambling thoughts 
followed the plow or swung the scythe till it 
seemed as if the shade of yonder tree, the 
draught from the spring ; the drink from 
the kettle, pail, or jug hidden imder an armful 
of new mown hay, were enough to tempt you 
to abandon labor. Or you have all day in the 
hot sun, with the perspiration streaming from 
every pore, handled the ripe grain till the 



W7iat an Artist Does. 19 

beards on heads of wheat and barley have 
pricked you deep and sore. 

Perhaps you have been at work in the 
woods, beating the march of civilization on the 
lofty pines and hard beeches, oak, and maples 
— with gleaming axes to the annoying tenor of 
stinging gnats and buzzing flies — working to 
build you a home and earn its adornment. 
Or you may have been all the day working in a 
mine — or sitting in your shop — or working at 
the case of types — or laboring anywhere by 
the day. No matter. You are our Brother. 
We are all workers together. We are all 
creators — each doing our best. You may 
pray on your feet, on your knees, or not at all, 
for this is your aflair, not ours. But we are 
brothers, and we are, before God, your 
friend. 

Come to our room and sit with us a few 
moments. Stay — 'we will come to yours ; this 
is better. Never mind the chair — we will sit 



20 What an Artist Does. 

here on this stool — this bench — this nail-keg 
upturned — this rustic seat, or on that log. 
It is late. In a few moments this week will 
have dropped into the silent well of time, never 
to be raised for our inspection till it comes with 
our record for His inspection. Soon you must 
sleep. Perhaps jou are sleejDiug now. Then 
we will sit on the edge of your bed, no matter 
if it be but a blanket on the ground or the 
floor. 

This is your home. It is so much better 
than many have, we do not wonder you love it. 
The little one or ones sleeping just there are 
yours. In God's name, brother workiugmeu, 
do not throw these beautiful pictures you can 
so well finish, or certainly spoil, into the 
rubbish-room of neglect. That woman so 
tired, weary, overworked, and underloved is 
your wife — your darling. All the day long, 
and far into the night, has she toiled to help 
you. She is weary. We know it by her 



^V]lat an Artist Does. 21 

attitude in sleep — by the way her head is 
thrown back — by her heavy breathing, for 
thus do rest the weary and the overworked. 

Look at the picture before you sleep. Do 
you wish her to love you better ? Do you wish 
the little ones to be nearer and more loving ? 
Do you wish your home to be more beautiful ? 
Then listen, not to us, but to our good angel 
who to-night so smiles on us, and wishes us to 
talk to you for her. Fill your home with evi- 
dences of your loving care, and it will return 
to you an hundred-fold of happiness. 

There is a place for a mat, or little piece of 
carpet. And there is just the place for a few 
shelves — a few books. And over there is a 
nice place for a little flower-pot. And there 
you can hang a bird-cage, or your little ones 
can train a vine. 

You have no money? O, yes. There is 
money in your muscle ! There is money in 
your brain. There is honor in your heart. 



22 W7iat an Artist Does. 

Work. Do not squander in dissipation. Do 
not throw your daily earnings from you to 
beautify the homes of others. You can do a 
little to-day — a little to-morrow — a little con- 
tinually. And see how these littles will accumu- 
late ! Little acts of love — little words of kind- 
ness — little struggles to master yourself — 
little articles bought from small earnings saved 
will soon give you a more beautiful home — 
more happiness, more heart-rest, more strength, 
more honest pride, more manhood, more influ- 
ence, more confidence in yourself, and more 
and more to you the deep, trusting, confiding 
love of your home opes. 

Bear with others. Perhaps none of us are 
quite perfect. It may be that the ones we 
would find fault with, though not quite per- 
fection, though fery fiir therefrom, are as good 
as ourselves, and on the whole better than 
some others. It may be you are a painter. 
Then you try often, touching and retouching 



What an Artist Does, 23 

before the work is perfect. Perhaps you care a 
grocer, weighing out tea. Do you always throw 
iuto the scale the exact amount each time? 
You may be a tailor, or a dress-maker. Do 
you always give a perfect fit without the neces- 
sity of thinking and altering a little here and 
there? And if we cannot finish a picture at 
one stroke — strike the exact amount for a cer- 
tain weight, or fit a garment the first attempt, 
how much less can we mold the inner life or 
outer life of a person to ours, at once, unless 
the Divine Builder has given us His aid ? 

Lead us not into temptation — but deliver us 
from evil. We are all tempted even as Christ 
was. We are at best but children who stum- 
ble, for ours is a rough road — but we can help 
others, who stumble, with us, to their feet, and 
not drag them down. Then we will all be bet- 
ter, and our lives will be to such purpose that 
our memories will not be tossed into the rub- 
bish-room of forgetful uess, but will, reflecting 



24 What an Artist Does. 

our lives, lead others to the beauties of the 
Eternal Home beyond the threshold of our final 
Saturday Night. 





CHAPTER II. 

WANTED TO GO BACK TO GOD. 

JO-NIGHT, when we passed out from 
our private office to call upon a lady 
friend, a pale-faced little girl at the 
foot of the street steps held before us a thin 
wooden board full of holes, nearly all of which 
held bouquets. 

"Please, sir, buy a bouquet for your button- 
hole." 

We looked at the tempting tea roses resting 
each on a leaf of geranium so sweetly — then 
at the poverty-stricken child before us, and 
wanted a bouquet at once. 

" How much for this one, little kitten ? " 

25 



26 Wanted to Go Back to God. 

" Ten cents, sir." 

" Here is the money, and I hope you will 
sell all the rest before I return." 

Then, with the little favor in a button-hole, 
we walked up town, passed the great hotels, 
through Madison square and on to our destina- 
tion. Then we called on a Masonic brother in 
another part of the city — then to see a widow 
lady who had a sick child in hospital — then 
to a political club meeting, and when we had 
returned to the office to finish our week's work, 
it was past ten o'clock, and as the drowsy, 
old-time watchmen used to say — " All's 
well." 

" Hello, little one ! You here still ? " 

"Yes, sir, please." 

" And not sold all your bouquets ? " 

"No, sir, but I've tried to ever so hard." 

" How many did you have ? " 

" Fifty, sir." 

" How many have you left now ? " 



Wanted to Go Back to God. 27 

"Thirteen, sir." 

"And it is past ten o'clock." 

"Please, sir, I know itj but I have sold all I 
could." 

" Why did you wait here ? " 

"To see you, sir." 

" How did you know I would come back 
here?" 

" I know you rooms here, sir — I've seen you 
come in very often." 

" Which are my rooms ? " 

"Up there, sir, where the awnings are over 
the windoAvs." 

" What did you want to see me for ? " 

"Please, sir, I didn't know but you would 
want another bouquet ; and I wanted to talk 
with you, sir." 

" Talk with me ! What about ; and how did 
you know I would stop to talk ? " 

" Oh, sir, I knew you would. Sometimes 
my teacher, or the Superintendent, reads your 



28 Wanted to Go Back to God. 

Saturday Night chapters in the Suuclay-school, 
and we all knoAv you there. And I knew you 
would, when you called me little kitten when 
you came out ! " 

" Well, little puss, come up-stairs. It is late, 
but you need not stay long." 

Then we took out the great night-key to the 
heavy front-door, opened and entered. Then 
up the broad, solid stairway to our private 
rooms. In a moment the gas was lit, and the 
room was bright as day, and soon we sat in an 
easy chair by the desk, while the little bouquet 
seller sat on a little ottoman by our feet. 

" Well, little kitten, what is your name ? " 

"MargyRadcliffc, sir." ' 

"Plow old are you, Margy?" 

"Nine years old, sir." 

"Where do you live?" 

"On Sixth avenue, near Twenty-first street, 
sir." 

" Is your father alive ? " 



Wanted to Go Back to God. 29 

"Yes, sir." 

« Wheat does he do ? " 

"Nothing, sir." 

" Is your mother alive ? " 

"Yes, sir." 

•;What does she do ? " 

"Nothing, sir, only sometimes she makes 
blue shirts for Mr. Waterman, who keeps a 
clothing store." 

" Have you any brothers or sisters ? " 

" One little sister, six years old, sir." 

" Where is she ? " 

"Selling flowers, too." 

" Where do you get them to sell ? " 

" Of Mr. Klein." 

" How much do they cost, each bouquet ? " 

"Six cents apiece, sir." 

" Do you sell fifty each night ? " 

"Not alwaj^s, but I try to. If I don't, father 
whips me." 

" What for — what does he whip you for ? " 



30 Wanted to Go Bach to God. 

" Because I don't sell them all ! " 

"Does he whip your sister, too?" 

" Yes, sir, he whips us both ! " 

"Not very hard, I reckon?" 

"Please, sir, look and see." 

And we looked on the back and shoulders of 
the little one to see the blue marks where ugly 
blows had been by the dozen bestowed on the 
little girl who sat there in tears while her flow- 
ers were on the sofa beside us. 

"If you do not sell all these to-night, will 
your father whip you ? " 

"Yes, sir." 

" What time must you be home ? " 

'* Any time before morning ! " 

" Does your father drink ? " 

" Yes, sir, every day I " 

" Does your mother drink ? " 

"Yes, sir!" 

" They do not both get drunk, do they?" 

" Yes, sir ; 'most every day." 



Wanted to Go Back to God. 31 

" Is that the best dress you have ? " 

" Yes, sir, and the only one." 

"How came you to go to Sunday-school?" 

" A good woman , with a sweet face bought 
a bouquet of me last spring, and came to see 
me ; and mother said I might go to Sunday- 
school." 

"And you go every Sunday? " 

"Yes, sir." 

"That is right; I wish all the little chil- 
dren in the land could go. Why do you go?" 

" To learn. And my teacher is so kind to 
me." 

"Do 3^ou love her better than your father 
or mother ? " 

"Please, sir, I don't want to tell! But I 
don't love her better than Lotta, my little sis- 
ter ! " 

And the tears ran down her face as she 
leaned forward and rested her head in our hand 
while we stroked the dust-filled hair which 



32 Wanted to Go Back to God. 

hung, but half combed, over her neck. Then 
she went to the wash-basin and gave her face 
a good bathmg, wet her hah", and brushed it. 
Then we put some cologne on it, and she 
looked so unlike the tired little Margy who had 
been talking to us, that when she looked in the 
mirror she almost laughed. 

Then she took a glass of ice-water and an 
aj)ple from the fruit basket, and another one 
for her sister, and sat again on the ottoman 
to tiell us what she wanted to when she waited 
for us. 

And it was a queer wish. She wanted us to 
adopt her, or to find her a home somewhere, in 
some other city, where her father would not 
find her, and whip her so, and where her 
mother would not whip her every day. She 
told the story of her sad young life. Often had 
she been whipped, and sometimes brutally. 
She swejot street-crossings in muddy weather, 
and sold bouquets, and. picked rags, and so kept 



Wanted to Go Bach to God. 33 

her parents alive and in drink. They lived in 
one little room 'way up-stairs, and never had 
butter on their bread. 

Once her father was a merchant. Then he 
became a politician. Then he became a drunk- 
ard, and lost all his friends. And his wife took 
to drink, and so they drove their little ones to 
the street. God pity them — and all little chil- 
dren who have such parents. 

She told us that life had no sunshine for her. 
No matter how well she did, cross words and 
blows were all the reward she had, till now, if 
we could not find her a home, she wanted to 
be sick and die, and go home to God, who, she 
said, she knew would not be so unkind to 
her ! And the tears kept coming as she talked 
to us. 

It was after eleven o'clock when . she left, 
with all her bouquets sold. "We went with her 
to the door, and let her out upon the street, 
when we saw her scamper away, glad to know 



34 Wanted to Go Back to God. 

that another night could she sleep on the floor 
without a whipping. 

We were glad to make her happy, and are 
glad to know that so many children, who will 
read this, or whose father or mother will read 
it to them, have not such cruel, drunken par- 
ents. 

In the great city are thousands of poor chil- 
dren who do not have even such homes as 
many poor children in the country have, and 
who would be very happy if they had nice beds 
and good food, and loving parents to care for 
them. We ask our little friends in the coun- 
try to think of little Margy Kadcliffe and her 
poor life, of her drunken parents and hard 
lot, and to see if they are not happy children, 
after all. They should be haj)py when their 
parents love them and care for themj as those 
who are good at heart always care for, or try to 
care for, their little ones and loved ones, as He 
who is our loving Father will care for us all, if 



Wanted to Go Back to God. 35 

we strive to be good, to be honest, true to our- 
selves and to do right. 

And we who are older than children can 
think of her bitter young life already so sicken- 
ing to her soul, that she longs to die and go 
back to God. And all of us who have little 
ones can resolve, that never will we thus for- 
get our manhood, and be unworthy that beauti- 
ful rest with the loved ones in the Land of the 
Leal, when the week of life has gone, and we 
can, like the little waif whose story we have 
told as she told it to us, go to our rest with our 
work all done and no punishment to follow the 
blessed Saturday Night. 





CHAPTER III. 



ONLY THINKING. 




E came to me in love — every word, 
every act, every move was to 
please. He spoke to me so kindly. 
He kissed me so tenderly. He brought me 
presents. He was always neat, clean, sweet, 
and cheerful. He seemed to live for none 
other than me. He wanted none other to 
speak to me — wanted me to speak to none 
other except with that cold formality which he 
taught me was queenly. 

Loved him? I could not help it. Never 
had I seen a man so kind. He was unlike all 
others. When I rested my head against his 
breast, he was so careful where his hand wau- 

36 



Only Thinhing. 37 

dered — so gently would he bend to kiss my 
brow — so smooth and gentle felt his hand to 
my fiice — so expressive was the pressure of 
his hand as palm rested in palm — so Avildly 
thrilling were those long, earnest, dreamy 
kisses upon my lips like music of distant silver 
bells or whispering murmur of low-singing 
ripples ; or like flutteriugs of beautiful coquet- 
ting birds in the air, that I sank to sweeter 
dreams in his embrace than ever before came 
to me in hours of rest. 

And, O ! what castles in the air my fancy 
built! He promised so much. His lips, his 
eyes, his words, his touch, his look, his low 
tones, his searching thoughts, his loving em- 
brace, promised all in all to me. I asked for 
no proof. Innocent, loving, earnest, believing 
— thinking him the same, I said yes to his ear- 
nest wooing. 

. . . It seems like a dream ! 

A horrid, ghastly dream. We were mar- 



38 Only Thinhing. 

ried. And how proud I was. In all the world 
no man like my adored. I would have fol- 
lowed him to death — to hell, because I was 
only happy where he was. There were but 
two worlds to me. One was the heart-warmed 
spot where he was. A bright, golden atmos- 
phere of love. A flower-filled garden, around 
which people might stand or walk — I cared 
not which. The other world was outside of 
this — all around it — where he was not. I 
lived within the golden-aired, loved-charmed 
circle. And I cared not who lived outside, so 
they did not break in to trample the flowers 
under my beautiful tree. I wanted not to go 
beyond to disturb those outside who might or 
might not have little bowers and gardens of 
their own. 

. . . I was very happy. Others looked 
in upon our circle and envied us. . . One 
day tears came to my eyes. Perhaps I was 
foolish. I put my hand upon my heart and 



Only ThinJcing. 39 

crowded it to silence, and looked about my 
beautiful garden. I had been mistaken. It was 
a garden after all. A bright, beautiful one. I 
would be happy. I was happy, . . He did 
not mean it. He came in from the world, 
and was cold. I would warm him to love — 
I did. He smiled as of yore. He kissed me as 
ever. I wept, and loved him the more. I was 
so proud that I had power over him and could 
warm his heart and kindle the fire in his eye. 

. I rested in his arms. There was 
my place. I slept upon his bosom. I wakened 
in the night and felt for him — over there. I 
nestled to his heart. He turned away. Only 
sleeping nervousness. I kept still and listened 
to his breathing, and with careful hand lifted 
the coverlet to his throat that he might be 
warm. . . He wakened. He spake not as 
once. Then I blamed the world for dealing 
harshly with him — my loved. . . He 
turned from me and slept. His hand was not 



40 Only Thinhing. 

so gentle as once. His words were not so low- 
toned. His kiss lost its electrical velvet. He 
was heavy and thoughtless. But he was mine, 
and I was content. 

. There came tears to my eyes. They 
came from my heart. Had I been dreaming? 
No, I wept, and I slept. I went down with 
memory into the vapory amethyst of the past, 
and visited with my love. I felt again his 
kiss — his touch — his presence. I lived again 
in the gentleness of his heart-lifting words. I 
wakened to think of him. Perhaps I was ex- 
pecting too much ! 

But he had promised even more ! 

And there came a mist — a faint, dim, 
shadowy mist before my eyes. It rested over 
my little garden. It reached from edge to 
edge. Faint, shadowy, almost transparent. 
Others did not see it. . . It grew. There 
arose from it a form. I stooped and looked 
under it. There was my lover — sitting as of 



Only Thinking. 41 

yore. My hand resting on his bosom. I was 
conlent. . . I chicled myself for weeping, 
and rested with him. . . I looked again. 
The mist grew thicker. From where my lover 
slept there arose a form. A man. Slowly he 
came up. It was him I loved — yet it was not. 
I saw the change before the world did. I 
stepped into the mist. I clung to the changing 
form. I forgot all save life and my little gar- 
den. Still the mist thickened. The form grew; 
Colder, more stately. The dress was not that 
of my love. The hand was not his ! The kiss 
was not his, but hurried, careless, unsatisfac- 
tory. His eye had lost its love-luster. It was 
simply the eye of a man. . . He spake and 
I listened. He commanded and I obeyed ! He 
desired and I submitted ! He feasted and I 
waited attendance in sickness or health. He 
walked to the wall and looked over into the 
world — I gazed at him. 

The mist grew thicker. It hid my lover from 



42 Only Thinking. 

me. It became like a pavement, and under it 
^ were my pretty flowers crushed with my air- 
castles. ... I felt a horror within me. 
I will not tell you what or how. I cannot. The 
ashes of unsympathetic desire poison deep and 
lasting. . . . The horror became an agony. 
The bosom I once rested so sweetly on, lost its 
warmth. ... I looked about my garden one 
day to find its mossy banks turned to stone. I 
was a prisoner ! But not a murmuring one. 
Still I was sad. I tried to be gay. He came 
in from the world. Hither and yon. He came 
with the flavor of other lips upon his lips. 
He came with an appetite gratified. 

. The bouquet I had gathered for him 
and culled the thorns therefrom, became a mat 
at his door-step. Our garden was his at last. 

. My heart grew sad and sore. The 
walls to our garden grew higher. He stepped 
upon my prostrate body, and then leaped the 
walls to gardens beyond. He was my husband. 



Only Tliiiiking. 43 

I was his wife. I saw changes and knew dreads 
the world did not see or know, or it had pitied 
me ! . . The walls grew higher. The mist 
grew colder. The one who arose therefrom 
spoke to me — turned his heavy eyes upon me 
— I was dutiful / . . I was too proud to cry 
aloud. I had seen, and known, and felt what 
others might have, or might not have felt. I 
live to my duty. I dug under the frozen mist, 
buried there all my olden dreams and memo- 
ries. Others came and looked from the outside 
of my prison walls to the within. They saw 
something of the change, but could not see way 
down to where my young life was buried. I 
asked for pity. . . They told me martyrs wore 
crowns. . . I asked for sympathy. They 
said I had a protector. . .1 asked for kind 
words. . . They said I would find them in 
my marriage certificate, which showed that I 
was a legal wife. . . . They came to the 
fence — to the wall and looked over. They 



44 Only Thinking. 

tossed me a volume of public opinion — a 
prayer-book — a sermon — a congratulation 
that I was a prisoner ! He came and he went. He 
commanded and I obeyed. He went and stayed 
long. He came with hot breath, unsteady step, 
coarse words, and brutal jests. His dress was 
not that of the one I loved. He had no kind 
words as then. . . . The flower was fair, 
but the fruit ! . . . Merciful God ! . . . 
Is this the dessert to the feast of early love ? 

Yes ! . . . I have ! . . . And why 
not? He broke his promises. He lived not for 
me — he loved me not. He lied to me when he 
won me, or he has so changed since that even 
the world — his friends would not know him. 
Our voyage was not to bring me to a prison 1 
I could have gone there alone ! . . . I have 
wept — and prayed — and waited — and hoped 
. — and forgiven — and watched — and striven 
— and petted — and caressed — and trusted — 



Only Thinldng. 45 

and struggled — and yielded — and suffered. 

. But the man from the mist heeded not 
— loved not! . . . Bouquets of thistles 
and necklaces of serpents ! 

. Yes — audit is now too late. He 
went and he stayed. One came and looked over 
the walls to my prison home. He was not like 
the one who went wandering away. 
His voice was kind. ... I listened, and 
it reminded me of the one who won my love 
years ago ! He spake and I listened, though I 
tried not to ! . . . O ! the olden memo- 
ries ! . . . The olden hunger, when it comes ! 

. I could not go out — so he leaped the 
wall and came to me ! . . . There was no 
one to love, to watch, to guard, to protect me. 
O ! had there been, he who came might have 
looked over the wall — I should never have 
seen him. . . . He smiled. He spake to me 
kindly. He called up the olden memories, and 
they came to his bidding. . . . "What more ? 



46 Only Thinking. 

I was dying of heart-hunger. And he fed me. 
Perhaps it was poison, 6ii^/ie jTecZ ??ie/ . 
And 7nine would not. He was not mine, though 
I was Ms! Yes — I loas his — I am so still — 
as much as he is mine ! I look not for his com- 
ing — I care not for it now. He may touch the 
cords of the lute — but the music died out long 
since. At least for him. ... I did wrong. 
. Why did they break the Sabbath when 
Christ was on earth? . . . Because they 
hungered ! . . . And how can a prisoner 
have food except the keeper bring it? And 
he brought it not. He bade me prepare feasts. 
Yet brought me nothing ! . . . The world 
condemns? Well — it may ! I am but human. 
What else is the world? . . . "Lead us 
not into temptation." But he who promised to 
I protect me led me there and left me ! . . . 
Am I more to blame than he ? A poor, weak, 
trusting woman more to blame than man, who 
is strong, and pitied, and excused? . . . 



Only Thinking. 47 

The blossom cannot combat the storm. The 
rill cannot defy the frost — nor the sun which 
comes after it. . . . The sunshine may 
not last forever — but it is sunshine. The cup 
may not be mine, but it gives life, and life even 
to a prisoner is something. If he who promised 
before God will not love me as each promised, 
am I bound by a contract he first broke ? And 
must I starve, while he wanders to other feast- 
ing and self-inviting banquets ? . . . — Thus 
ran her thoughts, as with head on her hand she 
sat thinking more of the past and present, than 
of this stormy, howling, tempest-driven Satur- 
day Night. 




CHAPTER IV. 

WHAT WILL WE DO OVER THERE? 

j.T is late, veiy late. Before this 
chapter will be finished, the day, 
the week will have gone, and an- 
other notch have been numbered on the scale 
of time. 

But for a long talk this evening with an old 
friend we should have finished this chapter and 
our allotted work for the week, before this, and 
have written on another subject. 

The friend who called was an earnest man. 
A deep thinker, though young as we count by 
years ! He came and would not go till he had 
asked questions, and piled up, as it were moun- 
tain high, ideas, theories, and arguments. 

48 




' Shi^ sat thinking more of the p;ist than the present." — See page. 47. 



W7iat Will We Do Over There? 49 

He was afraid to die ! 
- He wanted to know ivJiy he was. We told 
him all ♦his fear was the result of pernicious 
education from the teachings of those who rule 
b}^ fear, beneath a religion based on eternal, 
God-bestowing love ! We pitied him. We 
pity any one who is afraid to go home ! We 
pity the agent who cannot think without fear, 
of going to his employer. We fear that relig- 
ion — that theory — that belief which teaches 
men to fear death. We Avould fear to love a 
tyrant ! 

All the land over are children being edu- 
cated to dread death. Rather fear to live, lest 
we fail to live aright. 

It is late and very still. Our room seems 
filled with a mellow, golden light — with 
smiles. The presence about us is beautiful be- 
yond power of words. Our friend has gone. 
But we have something for him, for all who 

want more light. 
4 



50 What Will We Bo Over There? 

This is an age of progression. Minds are 
bursting the fetters of ignorance and narrow 
superstition, as growing buds burst their pods ; 
or growing trees burst the cords and ropes tied 
never so tightly around them by men. 

Because this or that was of the past does 
not follow that it will be of the future. 

The gas-burners overhead have taken the 
j)lace of the saucerfuU of fat with its floating 
cloth wick, by which we read years ago, as 
that took the place of darkness. The tele- 
graph has killed the carrier-pigeon — the piano 
has taken the place of the harp — the engine 
has superseded the Ass on which He rode into 
Jerusalem — the little letters or types with 
which these words will be printed have super- 
seded the hieroglyphics and mouth to ear tra- 
ditions of those whose ashes have nourished 
trees, grown fruits — again enriched the earth 
and sprouted grass to again enrich roots and 
tint flowers. 



What Will We Do Over There? 51 

These changes are the work of God. The 
plan of creation — contmuing creation. As 
matter works upon matter, so mind upon mind. 
By chemical or other process the life of root, 
bark and leaf is extracted — the spirit is pre- 
served, and remedies are made to be applied to 
those who are ill. 

By the change called death the dross is re- 
moved, but the spirit is saved. Thus the Gar- 
dens of God in the wonderful Land of the Leal 
are filled with new-comers each day till in the 
Realms of Regeneration are multitudes no man 
can count — spirits in the Grand Treasure 
House, each to work for all time to come, but 
standing face to face and seeing no more of 
God Himself than we do here. 

Why do we grow — expand, progress? 

Why do plants grow in hot-houses ? Why 
does iron . take shape ? Because worked upon 
by agencies — by a power irresistible. We 
teach children as those who have passed on to 



52 W7iat Will We Bo Over There? 

another sphere teach us. We are taught not 
alone by books nor by words. The winds, 
the storms, the light, the seasons, the events 
of time teach us. 

Our minds are operated on. Not by minds 
here so much as by minds Over There, with 
power to reach us; to annihilate space — to 
teach us by thousands of agencies. As some 
speak in many languages while others speak 
but one, and that one poorly. 

While on earth we have earth-born thoughts 
of earthly things. This is all there is of our 
present creativeness. Men make toys for chil- 
dren as other minds, older than ours, tell us of 
that life — not of earth and not known by us in 
the least unless we study, and ask, and are 
willing to be taught by those who alone can 
teach from works beyond our comprehension, 
but who do not care to teach those who will 
not learn. 

There are workshops in the Eternal as here. 



What Will We Do Over Tliere? 53 

• 

IMincls working out great problems. Minds 
operating on minds l)y the power of that Eter- 
nal magnetic influence increasinor tliere as the 
multitude increases in the spirit world or realm 
of improving minds. 

All these inventions of the age are not alone 
of our planning ! Others of the unseen are 
working with us. As we sit in our oflice in 
the East and direct agents, friends, mediums 
for working out our orders, miles and miles 
away in the West, so do thinkers, planners, 
suggesters, inventors, teachers and helpers of 
struggling humanity, out of sight and circles 
away in advance of us, work through us, Avith 
us, and for us, as for themselves and for the 
grand labor of Creation which was not ended 
when the world was, as some say, finished. 

The world is not finished ! 

It never loill he. And there are millions of 
unfinished worlds. There are workers there, 
doing something of which we may know all in 



54 What Will We Do Over There? 

time as we progress, fit ourselves and are fitted 
by teachers who have passed the threshold be- 
fore us, and who will aid us if we will it so. 

In the Eternal will be, and are, workers for 
good and for -evil. Two opposite spirits — 
forces, powers. Two opposing principles. If 
we are pure, loving, earnest workers here, 
careful to preserve our manhood, and to pro- 
gress in labor, intellect, goodness, and high 
attributes, we shall. Over There, be with and 
work with the pure, the kind, the beautiful in 
spirit, the loving, and the ones who benefit 
those ever to be educated. 

The beauty of the Eternal work will be our 
Heaven. The reward there, as here, when we 
see our plans prosper, our ideas take root and 
grow, our labors adding to the happiness of 
others. And this will be Heaven. 

If we are not pure, and loving, and true to 
that great God-like principle of purity while 
on earth, we will enter the Eternal Gardens the 



W/iat Will We Do Over There? 55 

same, and will have do place prepared for us — 
no beautiful welcome from the pure ; sweet 
there, as welcomes here are sweeter from the" 
pure and the good, more than from those who 
are not. Then will come a realization of lost 
opportunities in not fitting ourself by good lives 
and good deeds while at school on earth. 
The Avork on which the. good will ever be 
engaged will be work those who are not good, 
and pure, and earnest, and loving, and liberal, 
and truthful, while here taking lessons, will 
not be fitted for. 

Then will come to them remorse of con- 
science — regret to know and to feel that they 
are in the Laud of the New Life without capital, 
or credit, or a name, or a demand for them 
with the workers for the good. And this will 
be their agony — their hell. 

And their lives must be lived over again 
under teachers and under restraints till again 
shall they pass on, but far in the Avake of those 



56 V/hat Will We Bo Over Tliere? 

who are worthy and coiitmually called to 
higher planes and greater teachings, as far 
■beyond our present comprehension as algebra 
is beyond the ken of babes, or the science of 
phonography is Iseyond the rude symbolizings 
of savages. 

Thus belieying — thus taught by those who 
so often come to us with news from those who 
have gone before us — thus educated by unseen 
teachers who daily give us lessons and proofs 
of all this of vrhich we write, death has no 
more terror for us than has the sleep we shall 
soon lie down to. We have no fear of hell, 
for the worst of our life is passed, as with all 
who are progressive. Others may not like our 
faith, but it is good enough for us to live by — 
it is all the faith we want to die by. Death, 
as you call it, has no terror for us, for long 
since have we lost the fear thereof. 

Only do we ask to live to a purpose — to do 
good — to help make others happier — to com- 



W7iat Will We Do Over There? 57 

bat error — to thrust our pen into the dark- 
ness, like that within the inkstand before us, 
•that light may follow. Only do we ask to live 
here for those who love us and whom we love, 
caring nothing for the speech of those who do 
not love us — caring only to do our duty — to 
live a good life — to help others — to give com- 
fort to those in darkness, waiting for the light 
which will soon come to all on earth, as will 
come the rest, the dawn, the Sabbath morning 
after shall have faded out and passed away the 
darkness of Saturday Night. 





CHAPTER V. 

A LIFE lost! 

EFORE us is a letter opened not an 
I hour since. The echoes of the silent 
'words it contains are reverberating 
down and through the corridors- of memory — 
waking echoes on the points and in the valleys 
of the road to the river long since passed. We 
have been thinking of the contents of the letter. 
Not a tear has fallen, but a great welling sensa- 
tion of the heart — a silent reaching back, as 
if to recover that part of life's chain which is 
slipping from us, seven links a week — to look 
at a portion thereof again. 

By the Wcay, Mrs. , she whom you know 

was Maggie , died Saturday night last, and was buried 

58 



A Life LosL 59 

this afternoon. Poor -woman — I could not help weeping like 
a child as I stood and saw her coffin settling to its resting- 
place. And I must not forget to tell you, for you too knew 
her and will drop a tear over her unhappy memory. 

Gone Home ! O ! Father, we thank Thee, 
and not one single tear holds back or gives 
weight to the kindly greeting we send in 
thought, from the heart on the sunshine, over 
the humanity-filled river which marks the 
boundaries of here and there ! 

Poor Maggie here — happy Maggie there. 
Would you care to know of her ? We will tell 
a little chapter of life-history, woven by the 
longings of the soul — burned by tears into the 
vail so many wear, to keep their hearts from 
the eyes of those who cannot penetrate to the 
beyond. 

Years ago we knew her. A beautiful girl 
budding into womanhood. Did we love her? 
Others did, for hers was a soul and a heart 
worthy all love. One who loved her, with her 



60 A Life Lost. 

wondrous eyes and beautiful golden hair, was a 
friend of ours. A noble-hearted, brave, earnest 
young man, whose life was like glass, clear, for 
all men to see through. A thousand hearts in 
one not richer than his in manly worth, im- 
pulses noble, and purpose of ambition honest, 
and boldly reaching high above and beyond 
those who little reflect. But he was poor in all 
save pluck. No heart and hand more quick or 
open to the needy in weakness or affliction. 
Twas he that loved poor Maggie, and never 
were mortals better mated to make life's path- 
way smooth, and bring happiness each to the 
heart of the other. 

But to them the future was dark — perhaps 
because his faith did not reach through the 
gloom to the golden-lined success, waiting his 
winning. He trembled between hope and fear 
— between storms of heart and brain, as does 
the leaf, when counter currents toy with its fee- 
bleness. He lacked the bold ejrrnestness and 



A Life Lost. 61 

manly daring to take her to himself, and swim 
steadily, battling the waves, till the beautiful 
island in the sea of life was reached. He feared 
to lose her, and so fearing, lost her forever, and 
down the tide of time swept her heart and their 
happiness, as merry laugh of child is borne to 
the dark home of the tempest in the stormy 
hours of night. He did not know how stout of 
heart, brave of soul, glorious in trusting confi- 
dence, a woman can be when wholly loved by 
an honest heart, no matter how closely poverty 
keeps vigil and guard. Nor did he know that 
love, patience, and economy will sooner or 
later drive the gaunt sentry from its post. 

And Maggie ? Those who held restraint paren- 
tal over her life and heart said to her that she 
must not marry one who was poor. They told 
her she had been educated to grace the parlor. 
They told her she must not wed the youth who 
loved her, and whose heart with hers speeded 
joyously, lightly, trustingly together far out in 



62 A Life Lost. 

that ocean of happy life, beckoning them to fol- 
low hand in hand. They told her, while her 
poor heart was breaking, that it was her duty to 
marry to please her parents. That they knew 
better than she what she wanted. As if other 
than God or the one chosen by sympathetic 
nature can read the heart ! 

And poor Maggie, " like a dutiful girl," 
drank the poison of parental interference, bur- 
ied her heart beneath its dead hopes, gave her 
hand to the choice of those who were murder- 
ing her, and with her education, her love all 
dead, became the wife of another, who had 
wealth and friends of influence, and who told 
her she ■nmst wed him or he would die, and his 
death would rest on her soul. As if one who 
would thus demand could really love a woman 
and make her happy ! 

Years fled as if afi'righted. The proud young 
man, who so loved the beautiful girl for her 
heart and trusting goodness, died, risking his 



A Life Lost. 63 

life, at Fredericksburg. 'Twas there they found 
him, his forehead pierced by a musket ball, 
asleep ; the clotted blood hiding the face. A 
litle locket suspended by a golden chain from 
his neck hid the features of the only one he 
ever truly loved — poor Maggie, who was doing 
her duty as the wife of another. God rest him, 
and her, in the mellow sunlight of united love 
amid the ever-blooming flowers of the beautiful 
Eternal. Do we mourn her death — her life 
you mean? No ! 

She lived for duty. 'Twas a broken heart 
and a passive hand she gave another. He mar- 
ried her for her beauty. Those who marry for 
this roam for the same ! 

The years came and the years went. She 
lived in a "home," but in it was little sunshine 
for her. She tried to do her duty. She tried 
to love him. He was kind to her as goes the 
world. He surrounded her with luxuries — 
with pride presented her as his wife. He was 



64 A Life Lost. 

proud of her beauty, and felt safe to leave her 
with others, for he knew her life was cold, pas- 
sionless, unmoved by love. By this he trusted 
her. Not like one whose soul is filled with 
that grand, deep, wondrous love that so takes 
to itself a kindred soul and defies the world to 
step between or to win away from that God- 
blessed allegiance which is oil upon the waves 
of the dark river, that those who love truly 
may pass over to the flower-lined shores, uu- 
tossed, unharmed, unseparated ! 

But poor Maggie. Her life was not thus. 
He drank of her beauty, then quafied from 
other cups. He held her by cable of iron and 
anchors of ice. She was his ivife. He came 
and went. When he took her, the ruins of her 
only love were upon the grief-wrapped altar of 
her heart, and its portals closed — he could 
never enter to the mellow warmth, the life- 
giving beauty, the crowning happiness of mor- 
tality. He could OHly live outside, receiving 



A Life Lost. 65 

the kindness of a noble woman, from her con- 
sciousness of his claim. And she lived. God 
alone knows how. Her life grcw almost insup- 
portable ; to be daily, nightly, subject to the 
intimate companionship of a being whose 
coming she dreaded — Avhose kiss chilled her 
very soul — whose touch wa^ ^goiiy — whose 
passionate embrace a painful, sickening, dis- 
gusting horror ! But she lived to her duty 
like one who walks to martyrdom. In his 
presence her tired heart shrank away like the 
drop of dew caught by the frost. But ohe was 
doing her duty ! She was dying by inches. 
Her murderers were proud of her. The breath 
of scandal never swept her down. She was a 
model wife. Cold, distant, indiffej-ent. Her 
smile was fitful, like the sunbeam of autumn 
flying before the wind, as if in terror hastening 
homeward, or anywhere to escape. 

She did her duty ! She cared for h'ua in 
sickness without murmur. And when fir .a ho.j: 



6G A Life Lost. 

nursing came Ijealth, he roamed for beauty, 
and wasted his strength in lifting other goblets 
to his lips. Her homo was her prison. But 
she lived for her duty ! Oft did she wish to 
escape — to go out into the world — to the 
grave of her dead love, anywhere rather than 
walk in Siberian tbrture. But no ! The world 
stood before her like an army of savages with 
uplifted weapons to beat down whoever would 
run the gauntlet from bondage to freedom — 
from misery to happiness. The world can pray 
and -advocate for liberation of laborers from 
pi"otected servitude, then dance in glee around 
the pyres whereon are burning sorrow-laden 
hearts, and calf this unspeakable torture, Chris- 
tianity ! 

She longed to take back to herself the 
wreck of her hopes, to go alone to the grave 
of her life, and look over its withered leaves; 
she longed to escape the torture only women 
held like her can feel ; she longed to escape 



A Life Lost. ' 67 

the cold, indifferent, unloving, heart-destroy- 
ing tyranny of " home ; " to find some one to 
love who would love her; to live a life of 
usefulness and prepare for Heaven — but no ! 
Bigotry, puritanism, fanaticism, ignorance, 
narrow-minded illiberality waved its banner 
from door of church and the corrupt society 
that there find such frequent cover, and the 
cohorts of despotic tyranny sprang to toss 
back into freezing waters the poor, heart- 
wrecked unfortunate, thrugt therein by author- 
ity and forms ceremonial, only to sink to the 
bottom, content with doing a Christian duty. 

So lived poor Maggie. So she died. Her 
life was lost. Not when the kind angel caught 
her prayer, and bore it with her sorrowed soul 
to brighter scenes, but when she followed duty 
to the prison cell wherein her heart was locked 
and kept a freezing prisoner. Her life was a 
failure. She marked no happy result. Her 
life was not a beautiful flower to adorn and 



68 A Life Lost.. 

beautify. She was cowardly, but the world 
that stood with hot tongue and bitter-pointed 
pen in front of her prison to terrify, defame, 
and pierce through the one who, but for this 
inhuman cowardice, might have been happy, 
is a million times more so. And so to-night 
we have been thinking. Poor Maggie went 
home a week since. Her Saturday Night came 
and brought her joy at last. We are glad. 
Her life was lost years ago. 

O ! kind Father iji Heaven, wilt Thou not 
lead her to its return in the beautiful Land of 
the Leal, where Christianity is diflerent from 
that called Christianity here ? She was good 
here. She gave strict obedience to her parents. 
She knelt with them in childhood, and grew to 
womanhood on the cold, heartless, unchristian, 
illiberal barren of mistaken duty, as if God, 
who is all goodness, asks those who come to 
His breast to come with dead hearts, trembling 
spirits, dread and disgust of the present life, 



A Life Lost. 69 

which is to fit us for happiness hereafter, in 
proportion as we are truly happy, deserving 
and liberal. 

Some day we will plant a flower over the 
bed where sleeps the one whose life was lost — 
who was held by her parents and her husband, 
■while a Christian world did with devilish satis- 
faction most brutal mip'der. 

And we will plant a flower there which will 
grow to shelter the thousands and tens of thou- 
sands of heart-wrecked w^omen of the land, 
who, following a line of mistaken duty, with 
grief- strained hearts, trembled before an illib- 
eral world, and follow their so-thought destiny 
to a grateful grave. We know there are thou- 
sands of them, and know that a more liberal 
morn is breaking. It is not the duty of any 
person to make him or herself miserable. It 
is this mistaken idea which is demoralizing 
society. The doctrine that women must live 
simply to a duty — that that duty is to live 



70 . A Life Lost. 

with tyrants, brutes, despots, filthy forms, and 
those whose touch is agony — whose caresses 
are only for self-gratification — whose hearts 
blend not with hearts simply because the world 
so edicts, is filling the land with sorrow, crimi- 
nality, and reckless search after happiness in 
paths where it is seldom found. Exclude tlie 
light ^rom a plant, and it dies. Let light in 
from only one direction, and the vine reaches 
its pale tendrils toward the blessing. So with 
the heart. If there be no light of love com- 
pletely surrounding it, there will be reaching 
out this way and that to find that which is in 
reality all there is of life, as it is the great 
basis of His mercy, power, and goodness. 

God rest the ones whose lives were lost. 
And may the thousands everywhere who read 
this be happier than Avas she who sleeps now 
in a country churchyard. May parents not 
murder hearts. May men not demand sacri- 
fices which will rust their souls, and ma} all 



A Life Lost. 71 

the young who would be happy find as true 
hearts as had the one who lay down to his rest 
on the field of battle. . And to those who, like 
poor Maggie, are tied to a devilish, heart-tor- 
turing duty ; may they dare step out from 
life-losing bondage, take back their own, and 
teach men that though woman be weak, she 
can be strong in this her great protection, 
while waiting for joys in the Island of Rest, 
where the sun is Love, the Christianity lib- 
eral, and there never comes for the soul the 
darkness of a Saturday Night. 





CHAPTER VI. 



TO A POOR LITTLE BOY. 




JHIS stormy Saturday night, as we 
were on the street, with a protector 
from the rain, looking in at the shop 
windows, at the beauty and the brightness 
therein displayed ; then at the storm evidences 
and darkness outside, and thinking how much 
like life was all this, a poor, little, ragged 
newsboy came up to us. 

But first, our musing over the light within, 
and the darkness without. Some one had lit 
the lights and lamps within, and all was bright- 
ness. Without these lights all would have 
been darkness in these now beautiful shops, 
And so with us all. The lamps of love — the 



To a Poor Little Boy. 73 

light of kindness and good-nature we keep in 
our hearts, make us happy — make others 
happy, and no matter how the storm of life 
may rage outside, all is cheery within, and 
friends come to rest with us. 

The little newsboy. He was a ragged little 
fellow, for he had no home, as have thousands 
of the boys who read this. His feet were bare 
and blue, for the weather is cold. The rain 
dripped from the bottom of his ragged vest and 
pants, and beat in through his torn cap, to 
moisten his nut-brown hair, so soft and glossy. 

We did not know him — but he knew us, as 
witness the followino^ well-remembered conver- 
sation. 

"Good evening, Mr. Pomeroy. Will you 
have a paper?" And he handed us one yet 
damp from the press. 

' "Certainly. How many have you yet to 
sell?" 

"Nine more — I have sold forty-one now." 



74 To a Poor Little Boy. 

"Well, here is the money for all yon have 
left. And if you can sell all but this one 
again, do so." 

"Thank yon, sir. And please, sir — will 
you do me a favor, sir ? " 

And he looked up so honest and earnest, 
who could help answering promptly, — 

" Certainly, my little friend, if it be possible. 
What is it?" 

"Well, sir — I don't know as you will, but I 
wish you would write just one ' Saturday 
Night ' chapter for me ! I would rather you 
would than 2;ive me ,a new suit of clothes ! " 

" Write a ' Saturday Night ' for you ? What 
shall we say ? Perhaps our good angel will not 
be willing ? " 

"Oh, yes! It seems as if she would, or I 
never would have come and asked you ! I will 
keep it, and some day will thank you for it if I 
live." 

O ! the beauty and the strength of perfect 



To a Tool' Little Boy. 75 

faith. " Ask and ye shall receive " came to us, 
and we told the little fellow we would. Then 
he bade us good-night and went his way, while 
we walked on in the rain, our heart as light and 
cheerful as the most beautiful of all the places 
wo 'passed and peered into through unblinded 
windows. 

• ••••••• 

— Saturday JSfight to a little Newsboy. 

God love the earnest little fellow — and all 
the earnest little boys in the world. We will 
write for him and for them, if they will come 
and sit here in our pleasant room. It is not 
large, but millions can sit with us, and the 
golden presence which so mellows our life and 
makes us happy, will touch them all, to warm, 
to gladden, to beautify, with that wondrous 
power would to God all might possess. 

And now, little fellow, sit right here on this 
ottoman, whereon many and many a heart- 
broken sufferer has sat to tell us her or his 



76 To a Poor Little Boy, 

story. Sit there, so we can look into your 
eyes, and we will talk with you. 

You are a poor little boy. A homeless 
wanderer. One that is almost forgotten. So 
( were we once, and thus having been, we will 
talk very plainly and kindly to you to-night, 
just as a gentle presence so often by day and 
by night — Avhen the heart was full of doubt 
and storm — talked with us till happiness 
came to her bidding. 

You wish to be a man? Then you can be. 
The future is before you, ready to unfold beau- 
ties if you earn them. What if you are poor 
now? You can be good, and the rich can be 
no more ! You can work and you can win. 
In time you can become a leader among men. 
And if you cannot lead, you can follow, till 
others see your good qualities, and put you 
ahead. 

Only be honest. Be kind. Do not be 
coarse and vulgar, for thus is your heart dead- 



To a Poor Little Boy. 77 

ened, as the rust which marks where lemon- 
juice rested on the steel blade spoils its beauty 
and weakens it forever. Be kind to those who 
are poor and weak. See how much you can 
do Avell each day. See how much you can 
learn. See how much you can do each week 
that you will feel satisfied with. And do not 
fret, nor give up. Boys who thus act are poor 
timber, and soon break. 

What if some boy is better dressed, and 
sneers at you ? Pass him by ; it is hard to tell 
who will win the race. Suppose that boy rides 
in a carriage. Thank God you have health to 
walk and run, and some day you can ride if 
you will. See how much of a little man you 
can be ; and some day we will see how much 
of a great man you are. And, above all, be 
honest and be prompt. Never refuse to do a 
favor when you can, even to an enemy, if the 
favor be based on the rii^ht. And do not be 



78 To a Poor Little Boy. 

envious of others, for envy curdles the young 
life to make an unhappy old age. 

Keep on trying. Many have failed, but 
others have won. Do your work willingly, 
and never, never, never be afraid or ashamed 
of work. God Himself was a worker — be- 
hold what He did ! And we who would suc- 
ceed must work and wait ; the good seed sown 
to-day brings its reward all in due time. 

Sometimes, my little boy, the days will be 
dark, and it will seem such hard work to wait. 
You wdll imagine others to be doing better 
than yourself. Very likely; but are you not 
doing much better than many others? And 
you must try to do even better than the best. 
And so the years will come and go. And 
friends will come — never to go if they be 
friends, and you be deserving. Each day, 
each week, each month, each year, will find 
you stronger, and braver, and better, and rich- 
er, and more loved, and happier, as you will 



To a Poor Little Boy. 79 

add to your influence and use it for the 
right. 

Honors will follow confidence. As you re- 
spect yourself, others will respect you. As 
you strive to be somebody, others will help 
you, for you then can help them ! You will 
live to see many of the rich boys you envy go 
to wreck and to ruin. You will see poverty, 
following dissipation, take them to its embrace, 
and rest with them in the gutter, where the 
smiles of friends arc not known. You will see 
the grave close over the forms of those who, 
imlike you, have no self-respect, no pride, no 
wish to be good, or great, or powerful. And 
each year you will be more loved as you are 
good and deserving. And you will look back 
with such earnest pride to your own succes.s, 
— to the loved ones about you — to the con- 
quests you have made — after first learning to 
rule and govern yourself. 

Thus and thus only will your life be a sue- 



80 To a Poor Little Boy. 

cess. It is easy to be a loafer — to be a drunk- 
ard — to be a coarse, careless, brutal man; 
but, my little boy, you can be so much more if 
you will. Years have we lived, — long labor- 
giving years, — but never have we seen a pooi 
boy long friendless, or a deserving man long 
out of a situation. So try earnestly, and some- 
body will help you — somebody will love you 
— somebody will be proud of you, and your 
life will be beautiful. 

We wish all the little boys in our great coun- 
try would try to be good men — to be sober, 
earnest, deserving men. Some of them will, 
and some of them will not. Those who try will 
be loved, and happy. Those w^ho do not will 
never know the real helping support good lives 
and good actions bring, but will drop by the 
wayside into pine-coffins, shallow graves, weed- 
covered burial-places ; unhonored, and soon for- 
gotten. 

While those who are good and who strive 



To a Poor Little Boy. 81 

earnestly will be men of wealth, of power, of 
■worth, of influence. They will help make laws, 
for the days of bad law-makers in this country 
are passing steadily away. And the}^ can do 
good, and at last, when they have won victories 
here, have conquered obstacles, and been re- 
warded on earth, will be so trained, purified, 
and made useful, that there will be given to 
them great works and less labor, over the 
River in the Land of the Leal, where beautiful 
Groves, and harmonious Homes, and Eternal 
Love will hold all who are good, as we pray 
sweet sleep to fold in her careful embrace 
each and every one w^ho reads this well-meant 
ending of the week and of Saturday Night. 





CHAPTER VII. 



THE BEAUTY OF LIFE. 




EVER SO blessed a Saturday Night 
as this came to us before. Perhaps 
you do not care to read this, which 
some may call but sentiment. But it is life. 
All the week we have been so happy. Every 
day a day nearer. Every week a shortening 
of the time so long a-coming. The watch open 
before us ticks the seconds — chips from the 
block of God's time — into the well of the past, 
as drops fall from an ascending bucket. And 
the crystal drops not purer than we are happy 
to-night, for the week just endiug bears more 
than one record of good, and not one of inten- 
tional wrong. 

82 



The Beauty of Life. 83 

And we are happy to-night, for she, too, is 
happy. And would you know who she is ? We 
will tell you if you care to know. 

Qne day — oh, long ago — if days or weeks, 
or months, or other notches of time were cen- 
turies, we met her. A pure, loving, trusting, 
earnest woman, whose kind words warmed our. 
soul, and whose trusting smile, so heaven-lit, 
seemed such a protection. All the day and the 
days had we been tempted ; it seemed beyond 
our strength. Others had turned against us. 
Others had spoken bitter, cruel, cutting words, 
perhaps because, not guided by the same light, 
they did not see as we did, and not know our 
motives. Before it seemed as if the world had 
all gone wrong. And as the shadows darkened 
over our heart, to crush, to deaden, to destroy 
' — as dissipation opened wide the portals to bid 
us enter, she came between us and ruin with the 
Heaven-born protecting love of purity, kind- 
ness, confidence, and that deep perfection of 



84 The Beauty of Life. 

love which casts out -fear, and so gives strength 
to good resolves and impulses for the 
right. . . . . • 

And often has her love been our shield from 
life's storms. When tempted to dissipate, to 
squander, to forget, her love-lit eye, her trust- 
ing, earnest, heart-reaching look has come to 
us. In dreams she has been beside us — in the 
hours of the day and the night her words and 
smiles have been with us. 

"When we tried to do right she always encour- 
aged. When we were wrong, she came with 
gentle hand, to rest us with her velvet touch. 
When others looked bitter, she looked sweet — 
tenfold so as we turned to her with a heart all 
her own, for life or death. 

She is and always has been good to us. She 
believes in us. She trusts us, and God knows 
we would not deceive her. She has an influence 
over us — and knows it. So she exercises it 
only for the good, the pure, the noble. 



The Beauty of Life, 85 

We talk with her. We tell her all. The 
grave is not closer than her lips when the secret 
of another is behind. them. We live iu'her love, 
grow strong in her faith, and are happy because 
entirely content. We have no fears she will 
forget ns or ftiil to love. We have no fears that 
any one can win her, for we defy any one, ex- 
cept aided by God's great power, to come be- 
tween us — to separate us. 

She is good, and kind, and pure, and so we 
love her. If she were not thus to us she would 
trijfie with us, and then our love would be lost. 

Every day do we have evidence of her love 
and care. She did this to-day — ^that yester- 
day, and that the day before, to aid us both — 
to make us happy. She fixed that article ; she 
arranged those ; she makes our little room so 
homelike ; she leaves the imprint of herself on 
each book, picture, flower ; each little gift, 
keepsake and memento in the room,, as her 



86 The Beauty of Life. 

little work, so neatly done, was to add to our 
happiness and the beauty of our home. 

I am proud of her, of her love. I am hon- 
ored by her trust in me. I have faith in her 
love and her protecting influence. I know she 
is the best friend I have on earth ; that to her 
I owe so many, many hours of happiness. 

And as I am happy in this true, pure, earnest 
love, so am I earnest in its defence. My heart 
is so full of golden-hued sunshine. Every day 
I try more and more to be good, to be kind ; 
to do some good, and to live to some purpose. 
And the more I try the more I succeed, and 
the happier we both are. She is the queen 
and I am the subject. • Here she rules better 
than with the ballot, for now my pride is to 
protect her, thus growing stronger myself. 
Yet she does vote. My heart is the ballot- 
box, her eyes the voters, her kind words the 
ballots, with not one against me from week to 
week, from mouth to month. 



The Beauty of Life. 87 

And I feel so proud to know that I am a 
kind, loving, earnest, darling-loving working- 
man. I am proud to think I am worthy the 
love of a good, pure, virtuous woman, whose 
heart and mine each year run more and more 
together as our lives ripen for a pleasant hand- 
in-hand walk through all the groves of God in 
the beautiful Land of the Leal. Others may 
dissipate and waste their strength, but while 
she loves me I cannot fall — / will not. So 
says that good spirit which for so many years 
has been with us — which has led us back with 
her oft and oft, to that Loving Presence wJiich 
has promised us sweet rest with those we love 
when comes our call from labor to refreshment. 

I have her love, as she has mine^ — all and 
complete on earth — united as it will be over 
there where there will be no sex ; for those 
who will reach there will be so blended and 
united that the perfection not ours to enjoy on 



88 The Beauty of Life. 

earth will then be given us. I have her word 
as she has mine — her vows as she has mine. I 
fear no seducer or debaucher, for om* love and 
honor is too perfect for anything to separate. 
And thus we are worth}^ of each other. 

And worthy of the dear home we have. Of 
the good friends we have. Of the happiness 
we enjo3^ Our home may be small, but it is 
our home. It may be in the city or forest, but 
it is ours. Others ma}^ not love us, but we 
love each other, and what more did Father and 
Son do while in Heaven together, or while 
separated for a short time. 

And she I love so well may not be the rich- 
est woman in this world's goods, but she is the 
best, the truest-hearted, and we are growing old 
together, nearing our meeting in the Golden 
Beyond. She may smile on others, but her 
sweetest smiles are for me. No one watches 
over me as does she. No one so ready to for- 
give as she, except it be He who forgives us 



• TJie Beauty of Life. 89 

all. The more we do for each other, the more 
happiness we fiucl therehi — for thus do good 
endeavors come laden with sweet perfume. 
And though I am but a workingman, I am 
very, very happy, for I am content to love as 
Christ loved us all, and in this contentment 
willing to labor, and help make others happy. 
As we all hope to be when the tired head is pil- 
lowed on the mossy bank over there — where 
we will live in the love of our loved ones and 
mingle with those who on earth knew and 
enjoyed true manhood and the society of the 
good. May we all live here so that we may 
enjoy the pure after there comes to us golden 
dawn, which soon will come, following the 
blessed Heaven-opening Saturday Night. 






CHAPTER VIII. 

ONLY A WIDOW ! 

iO-NIGHT we stood in frout of a 
house, watching a woman at work. 
The curtain not quite down, but we 
could look in and see a woman at work. One 
of God's toiling millions here at her task long 
after nightfall. Had she known we were there, 
she might have thought us impertinent — but 
we did not me^ to be so ! 

She swept the floor — no carpet thereon. 
She set the chairs in place — shoved a little 
table to one corner of the room. Then she 
stopped before a glass to smooth her hair back 
from a brow that seemed to us fair, but sor- 

90 



Only a Widow. 91 

row-lined. Then she stirred up the fire, 
took a lamp from the mantle, and set it on a 
little table close by a sewing machine, and soon 
was at work, although it Avas three hours past 
sundown this Saturday Night, as she worked 
and we watched. 

"Hello! is that you?" 

"Yes." 

" What are you standing so still for?" 

"Looking at that woman — you can see her, 
look under the curtain." 

"Only a poor widow at work — what sense 
in looking at her? Come along — I'm going 
your way." 

And so we reeled up our thread of thoughts, 
and walked homeward to the little room where 
we sit to write this chapter, and wait to say 
good-by to the week, for we shall never see it 
again, and would part friends. 

Only a widow ! 

And is not that a volume? You who see 



92 Only a Widow. 

only a widow at work, see not the hundredth 
part. We see a woman whose life may have 
been happy — may have been miserable. If 
happy 

She had a home. She was loved and petted 
and cared for and protected and caressed by 
one who was dearer to her than all others. 
She was one who to his manly keeping had 
confided her love, her heart, her afiectiou, her 
life. To aid him who is now mourned Avas her 
delight. To care for him — to welcome liim 
home from toil — to watch by and over him 
in sickness — to lighten his load, minister to 
his wants, and make him proud of her, happy 
with her, earnest and manly through her, was 
her great, noble, God-given mission. 

We looked back to the days when she gave 
her heart and herself wholly to him. To the 
time when the two started out as young voy- 
asrers on the sea so full of wrecks. We saw 
him bending to kiss her — holding her to his 



Only a Widoto, 93 

heart — smoothing back the hair from her fore- 
head — looking 'way down the mystic depths 
of those loving eyes, into the heart all his 
own — sitting side by side, palm in palm — 
resting his tired head on her bosom, or hers on 
his — kissing her and calling her his darling. 

And we saw the years fading as they fol- 
lowed the vapory weeks down the vale of time. 
And age leaving marks and furrows on their 
brows, as occupants of cradles came to bind 
them still closer in love and life. And we saw 
with what pride she looked on him ; good, 
true, noble, loving, kind-hearted man and con- 
siderate husband ; affectionate and honest 
parent, setting good examples, as he would 
make of his sons and daughters men and 
women. 

And we saw the house growing in its attrac- 
tions — friends calling to enjoy their hospitality 
— the walls being covered with pictures — the 
rooms everywhere adorned with articles of lux- 



^4: Only a Widow. 

tiry, taste, comfort, and convenience. We saw 
their home becoming happier as they learned 
how little the world cared for them and how 
much they cared for each other — how happy 
were they together, how nervous, uneasy, and 
lonely when separated. How she watched for 
his coming — ^ greeted him with a kiss — how 
he held her to his heart and rested from his 
labor in her loving presence. 

Then we saw her watchinor over his sick bed 

O 

— her heart in fear, tears, agony, and then they 
told her he was dead — and then, like a dream 
T^ent her life of happiness, and she was at sea, 
alone, hopeless, heart-wrecked, living on the 
floating, tear-wet memories of the happy past. 
The good ships parted company before the gol- 
den shore was reached — she is left to sorrow 
and to sink — ^to labor and to repine — to strug- 
gle through the waves of affliction with her 
weary load till death comes to her relief. 
Only a widow ! 



Only a Widow. 95 

Great God ! As if that "were not enongli. 
And you all speak unkindly of her, as if his 
death were her crime ! You shut her out from 
employment — you compel her to work for pen- 
nies where you pay others dollars — you take 
flight in giving her work, and cheating her 
out of her scant}'- pay — you deem it Christian- 
ity to torture ^nd overwork her, for she is only 
a widow ! 

If her heart from its despair turns to the light 
of kindness and loving words — if she smiles on 
one who speaks kindly to her — if she dares 
raise her eyes from the grave of her lost one, 
the young and old alike sneer at her, for she is 
only a widow. And she struggles on with won- 
drous heroism. She cares for her little ones. 
She does her duty. She takes still closer to 
her heart the little ones he left, and then you 
blame her for loving her first-born — the ones 
who are warmed by the sunlight of olden mem- 



96 Only a Widow. 

ories of him, no matter how changed her life 
may be. 

God love all the widows — all who have lost 
their loved ones — all who are sorrowful of heart 
for those who sleep here to waken just over 
yonder I We love the earnest men with wives 
and little ones, who strive to live loving, use- 
ful lives. "We love the men who labor, and 
plan, and take care of their homes and earnings, 
that their widows and their children may not 
come to want and be driven from sorrow to 
suifering all the years to come. We love the 
men who are kind to the widows — the women 
who care for them and speak kindly to them — 
the society which gives them employment and 
good pay — the men who love their wives well 
enough to care for them — to provide them with 
a home, as every man does and -will do who 
really loves the woman of all others he pro- 
fesses to love most. We love the man who, 
reading this, thinking of the past and of his 




" On Uie bed Lay the Uttle giil we cainu to bcp."~Sm mm 09, 



Only a Widow. 97 

loved ones, dare deny himself dissipation, and 
dare labor earnestly, that his wife may love 
him better hero, and his widow may not suffer 
should he be first called to rest, 'leaving her a 
load of sorrow to bear from his Eternal morn 
till her final Saturday Night. 
7 




CHAPTER IX. 




PATIENT IN SUFFERING. 

lOME weeks ago one of the men 
working in our office told us of a 
little girl who the clay before had 
fallen down stairs and broken her hip. Said 
he: — 

"It is too bad, for she was such a playful 
little romp, and her mother is too poor to care 
for her as she should bo cared for." 

So we went out with him one night after the 
day's work was done. Down a narrow street, 
turning here and there — into a cross street 
swarming with noisy children, dogs, cats, and 
jostling humanity. Then into a little alley be- 

98 



Patient in Suffering. 99 

tween two brick bouses — into a little back 
yard or area lined by bouse walls — up tbe 
back stairs one, two, tbree fligbts — into a lit- 
tle balf-furnisbcd room. 

Only one room, not twenty feet square. 
Two windows looking* out into, and down upon 
tbe contracted area or yard. Not a bit of car- 
pet on tbe floor — one little ten-cent picture (a 
little girl playing witb a kitten) on tbe wall — 
a little, old, cracked stove in a corner, witb a 
stew-pan tbereon, in wbicb a bone was being 
boiled. A rude bedstead stood in tbe oppo- 
site corner, tbree old cbairs and a tbree-legged 
table standing against tbe wall, marked tbe 
comforts of.tbis "bome." By tbe table, work- 
ing by tbe ligbt of a small kerosene lamp, sat 
a middle-aged woman, making blue overalls, 
wbile on tbe bed lay the little girl w^e came to 
see. 

" And bere is wbere you live ? " 
"Yes, sir — we try to live bere." 



100 Patient in Suffering. 

"How is the little one to-night?" 

"Just about so, sir. She suffers a good 
deal." 

" She bothers you about working, does she 
not?" 

" Yes, sir, but I don't mind that." 

" How many hours a day do you work ? ". 

" I don't know, sir. I am up as soon as it is 
light, and I work all day till everything is still 
on the streets ; about midnight, I think, sir." 

" 'V^Hiat rent do you pay for this room ? " 

"Two dollars a week, sir." 

" How much do you earn? " 

" Sometimes sixty cents a day. But since 
Annie has been sick I can't earn more than fifty 
cents, and some days not that." 

" You can't lay up much, then?" 

"No, sir. It is hard work to get along. 
When Annie is well she makes some days ten 
cents selling papers, and if it is too rainy to 
sell papers she sweeps the crossings." * 



Patient in Suffering. 101 

" How much does she make ruuiy days ? " 

"Some days nothing. Some days a few 
pennies. Once a man gave her a dollar, and I 
got her a new dress with it, and some shoes at 
a second-hand store. Once a lady gave her a 
half a dollar, but such things don't happen very 
often." 

" Have you a husband ? " 

"Yes, sir — but, sir, he only comes here to 
sleep, and sometimes docs not come at all. 
Sometimes he is here to supper and to break- 
fast — sometimes he comes here when he is 
sick." 
» " Don't he help support you ? " 

"Not now, sir. He used to, but he don't 
now, sir. He takes what money Annie makes, 
and goes off with it when I don't have a chance 
and take out part of it, and then he scolds and 
swears at me." 

" What does he do for a living ? " 

"Nothing, sir. He goes around; I don't 



102 Patient in Suffering, 

know where. He is off with somebody, and 
drinks a good deal, sir. Sometimes he don't 
come home for a week." 

" Do you love him ? " 

''Yes, sir — I did love him once, but it 
seems a long while ago, sir — when we lived in 
Harlem, and began to keep house, and when 
Annie was born. But he is not now as he was 
then, sir. Then he was good, and never struck 
me, sir." 

"He does not strike you now, does he? " 

"Sometimes, sir, but not often. Only when 
he is in liquor. Two weeks ago he struck me 
with a chair because I did not have anything ^ 
for him to eat, and I was lame a good while so 
I could not lift Annie, but it's most well now." 

And she showed us a long, greenish-looking 
bruise on her left shoulder, yet painful to the 
touch. 

"Don't he help take care of Annie?" 

"No, sir. He scolded when she fell down 



Patient in Suffering. 103 

stairs, and said she was careless. And tliat is 
all he does." 

" Has he been home to-night ? " 

"No, sir, not yet. He may come any min- 
ute." 

" Let us see about the little one. How old 
is she ? " 

" Eight 3^ears last July, sir." 

Then we sat upon the edge of the rickety 
bed and looked at the little girl. A pale, 
feverish, little bundle of nervousness and ach- 
ing pains. She lay in bed, a bundle of old 
rags under her head — the jet black hair in 
striking contrast with her pale face. An old 
shawl was thrown over her as she lay there 
helpless, her eyes looking at us as we have 
seen lambs look when waiting the knife of the 
butcher. We felt her wrist — it was hot, and 
the pulse was unsteady. Her brow was hot 
with nervous fever. A coarse uuder-garnicnt 
revealed the half-starved anatomy before us, as 



104 Patient in Suffering. 

she seemed to say — " Please sir, I caif t help 
being poor, for my father don't love me ! " 

We looked into her eyes till the tears came 
— till the lashes over hers closed, and she 
turned her little head to the wall, while the 
tears trickled down her face. 

" Annie ! Look here, little one." 

Slowly she turned, — 

"Please, sir, I didn't mean to cry, but your 
hand felt so good on my head, and I was think- 
ing if papa would only do so, it wouldn't hurt 
me so much to be sick, and to see poor mamma 
working all the time so hard." 

And the tears rolled one after another down 
more than one cheek in that little room — that 
mockery of " home ! " 

"What do you want, dear? Tell us what to 
get for you." 

" I want to be well, so I can help my mother ! " 

Was ever answer so eloquent? Who says 
the children of the poor are not near to God ? 



Patient in Suffering, 105 

How else could such Christ-like sympathy find 
its way from heart to lips even of little patient 
sufferers? And God make that reply the 
bridge over which this little one's father, and 
other little ones' fathers, can walk to return- 
from the belt of desolate dissipation to the 
Hoblc love of honest, earnest manhood. 

" I leant to be icell, so I can help my mother I " 
By the power given us under the golden 
shadow under which we write we will burn that 
sentence in letters of fire around the rim of the 
glass that father sends to his lips so often, and 
open his eyes, never to be closed, to the tear- 
wet prayer of his child — 

^^ I leant to be icell, so lean help my mother!^* 
""Well, dear, you shall soon be well. And 
your mother is already helped. Your love 
helps her. Now tell us what you want be- 
side." 

" Shall I tell you just what I want ? " 
"Yes, just what you want." 



106 Patient in Suffering. 

" I want some lemonade, for it will taste so 
good! Can I have some ? " 

"Why, God love you, little one — you shall 
have all you want — enough to swim in." 

"When?" 

" When ? Eight away — soon as we can get 
it. " 

"And may I have an orange, too, sir?" 

" Yes — a dozen of them." 

She drank of the lemonade, ate an orange — 
a great big luscious one — and after we had 
bathed her face, and neck, and little hands and 
arms with a sponge, wet with Cologne water, 
she lifted her face a little, put her lips to ours, 
her arms about our neck, and whispered : — 

^^Ido thanlc you, sir!" 

We have heard the wildest, grandest thun- 
der of Heaven, while sitting out in the storm 
to enjoy»the terrific grandeur of ^the burst, the 
rumble and the flash which seemed to dance its 



Patient Jn Suffering. 107 

zig-zag waltz on our very eyelids — we have 
heard the thunders of brass and steel-mouthed 
artillery — have heard the death-shrieks of 
those suddenly called to their fiual account ; but 
that simple whispered " I thank you, sii%" from 
t6e lips of that father-neglected little sufferer, 
rises high above the storm, the thunder, the 
shriek, and is heard even now as we write this 
simple chapter of fact without effort or attempt 
to polish, adorn, or beautify. 

It cost but little to make her happy. A few 
kind words. A little money saved from fool- 
ish extravagance that we might do good there- 
with when came the chance and demand. We 
might have bought a bottle of wine, or treated 
half a dozen boon companions, and thus helped 
win fathers and husbands from their love of 
home ; but there would have been no pleasure 
in that, and not one bit of good accomplished. 

And we think of this little patient sufferer — 
of the thousands all over the land — we can 



108 Patient in Suffering. 

but feel thankful that wc have mauhood enough 
to take care of our strength, and care for those 
we love. There are women all over the land 
— women who have homes, little ones they 
may be, but homes, and playful children, and 
loving husbands. Yet they are not contented, 
though a million times better off than many. 
There are little children and big ones, dissatis- 
fied with what they have, when they are kings 
and queens compared to poor little Annie, who 
never utters a word of complaint. 

And there are men who once loved, and car- 
ressed, and cared for their home ones — who 
even now are good and kind at heart — who do 
not know how their home ones love them, and 
pray for them, and long for their sober, loving, 
protecting presence — who are too good to 
throw themselves away, and leave those who 
love them to the chance care of stransrers. 

And so, little ones, who read this true story 
of a little crippled girl — think if you arc not 



• Patient in Suffering. 109 

better off than she. You have a home — lov- 
ing father and mother — some one to love, and 
to love you — and no drunken father to rob 
you of pennies, as little Annie's father 
robs her of the money she earns by sweeping 
the streets on rainy days, that the rich who 
cross may not soil their silks or their boots. 
And when you see poor little children, use 
them well, and be kind to them, and share 
your good things with them. Then they will 
love you, and you all will be better. 

And you, good woman, when tempted to 
scold and find fault with your lot, think if you 
are not better off than the woman of whom we 
write. 

And you, our brothers — for we all are 
brothers, after all — look at your family, and 
thank God that you have manhood, and the 
strength to care for your loved ones, as they 
will care for you when comes the time. A nd 
when you see a weak brother struggling to 



110 Patient in Buffering. 

rise, help him. Stand by him. Encourage 
him. Give him employment — at least, kind 
words, and then we will all of us be better and 
happier when the work of the week — the bat- 
tle of life be ended, and we can rest from labor, 
thanking God for such rest, and for the bless- 
ings which follow the good resolves of Satur- 
day Night. 





CHAPTER X. 



WHY SHE DIED. 




HIS Saturday Night the clouds hung 
dark and heavy over the sun, as at 
times they will over the stoutest 
heart. Drops of rain came pattering, then 
blindly driving against pane and ledge. Then 
came a wild, shrill, whistling dirge — the clouds 
lifted and rolled away to reveal the stars and 
the blue — the Heaven and our Angel watch- 



ers. 



Storms do not last alway. Herein is hope 
for all. Many a bright ray — many a gentle 
breeze — many a cooling whisper of the winds 
before will come another ending of the week, 



111 



112 Why She Died. 

so we will labor contentedly, and enjoy the 
beautiful when it comes. 

To-niarht as we sat to write there came to us 
a strange crowd of faces and forms from the 
beautiful Eternal. Faces we have known — 
the face of our Guardian Power, with others. 
The blue of the picture above us is filled with 
them, and they will speak, so we listen. . , . 

A form bear they with them. . . 
A heart-wrecked, pale, hungry-souled sufferer. 

. The face is pale but at rest. 
Yes, we did know her this side the Great 
River. We shall know her over there with 
others who are purified by such agonized suffer- 
ing; as the world little recks of. . . . 

She is telling us her story — the his- 
tory of a life. The poison marks are upon her 
lips, for thus she took her life in her hand and 
reached its load of blistering agony back to 
God. . . . We will tell you as she told us 



Why She Died. 113 

— as she whispered it to us this night from 
over there. 

"Years ago — O, so many, for the road has 
been loji'g — years ago, when I was a young, 
trusting, innocent girl — a child in knowledge, 
he came. He sought me out to ripen his love 
on my young charms. He came with such low- 
toned, earnest words, I loved him. I believed 
in him. His was a haughty, imperious nature, 
so they told me — a temple of honor. I feared 
and loved him. It was a strange charm he 
threw over me — not so much over my heart as 
my senses, ^e blinded me, with promises. 
The fires of love, as I thought, burned so 
deeply in his eyes that I read the road to hap- 
piness by the wondrous light thereof. 

" He covered me with gifts. He came with 
love-tokens. He bought me keepsakes. 

" He stole me from myself, and buried me 
under fancied obligations. 

" He knelt before me — he plead with me 



114 Why She Died. 

till my heart gave way, and to his ardent woo- 
ing 1 answered ^Yes.' Then we were mar- 
ried. They said God joiued us together ! O, 
strange, unnatural mating ! I became his — he 
said I was all his ! Then I was happy. One 
by one the old friends went their way to other 
loves. Avenue after avenue — source after 
source of that which gave life, interest, and 
pure enjoyment, he closed, lest I might wan- 
der from liim. . . . Was he afraid of me? 
" Afraid to trust one who before God had 
vowed love, constancy, and fidelity? . 
Not all at once, but little by little. Here he 
shut a gate. There he erected a wall. Over 
there a hedge. And thus he turned me from 
the old scenes, the old friends, the old memo- 
ries. He said I was his ! He said our home 
was his. He said I might some time be 
tempted — he took from me my confidence — 
he drank in all my soul — he carried me each 
day in his hard, hot, closed hand, and only 



W/iT/ She Died. 115 

opened it wheu he wanted to toy with me to 
rest his fancy or cool his blood. 

" But he was a noble man — the world said. 
He was not a drunkard — he was not a coarse, 
profane, vulgar man, careless of rights or opin- 
ions of others. He attended church — he Avore 
good clothes — he went in good society, so- 
called. He took me to his. home. It was a 
little palace. He put carpets under my feet. 
Books on the tables and shelves. Pictures on 
the walls. He pointed to the doors and told 
me to breathe fresh air ! He pointed to 
windows and told me to look out and learn 
wisdom ! He pointed to the couch whereon we 
slept and told me to await his coming — to fold 
him to my embrace as was my duty. I obeyed 
in all things, for I had promised. 

"When others Avere by, he smiled, and 
talked, and joked, and boasted, and looked 
wise. He praised me before others, and ,1. 



116 W/iT/ She Died. 

smiled. He dressed me in the best, as he did 
his horse. He fed me, as he did his dog. He 
£::ave me work to do — it was doue. He bade 
me entertain his friends — of mine own I had 
none, except with the long agoue. Others 
said I was happy ! . . . 

" But when Ave were alone ! His words were 
cold, heartless. He was master — I was slave. 
He commanded — I obeyed. His words were 
cold — his manner heartless — his blood hot — 
his delicacy of thought, of touch, of expres- 
sion, of care was blunted, deadened, poisoned 
by those whose embrace gave him excitement. 
But the world said I was a happy wife I 

"My children learned to fear him. They read 
my heart, but I did not wish them to. They 
shrank from his coming. They came to me 
and wept. Then he was master and tyrant. 
The kind hours he once gave me went, never 
more to return. I had none to go to — not one. 
He withdrew me from others to feast on me 



JV7uj She Died. 117 

at leisure. His words often and often, and often 
were cruel, bitter, biting, heart-wounding 
words. But he cared not. Perliaps I was not 
perfect. I could have learned from him, but 
he would not be my teacher. When I was 
sick he was brutal. He came to me at night, 
and drank in of my electricity, till all the life I 
had was gone and on it he grew strong. He 
mixed with crowds till his vital energies cried 
for succor, then came to me, absorbed all I had 
and stood with renewed power over my pros- 
tration ! 

And this was my life. Not a desire in com- 
mon ! Not a wish born of united hearts I Not 
such a life as he had promised, or I had pic- 
tured. In ftict, it was not a life, but a great, 
destroying, heart-crushing, murdering agony ! 

" If he had only spoken kindly to me ! If he 
had only told me to go from him, and seek 
more congenial nature. If he had only let me 
die when I was so often sick in heart and 



118 Wliy She Died. 

body I If he had only abused me in company, 
and been kind to me when alone, in our home, 
in our room — I could" have wept with delight, 
and worshipped him. But he cared nothing for 
me. I was wan and worn. 

"What was life to me? I saw other homes 
happy. I saw other men kind, and good, and 
gentle, and high-minded. I saw poor men, 

! so kind to their waives, that I hated the fur- 
niture of my home — I grew tired of the mock- 
cry of life — I learned the lesson he gave me 
and — and — and — yes, I almost hated him ! 
But I would do no wrong to him. I was true, 
if he was not. I hoped to win him back to me. 

1 hoped to bear his loving words once more. 
But then I did not know, as I know now, that 
love once flown is gone forever ! 

" One day, when weary, very, very weary 
of life, I longed for death — for that rest which 
of itself was heaven. I wept over the buried 



Wh7/ She Died, 119 

happiness of the past. I sighed for the days 
of long agone, and tried to still my heart as it 
contemplated the terrible mockery of life 
which had been my lot. Hope I had none. 
He who once was all in all to me was nothino; 
— long since • outgrown his unsettled love. 
Perhaps I had made him miserable. Perhaps I 
had driven him to unkindness. How? When? 
God might know — I did not ! He lived for 
no purpose other than to be master, and to 
point to me as his. 

"At last — at last ! Weary, O, so weary of 
life ! Tired of waiting for death. Heart- 
wrecked and weary of feasting on ashes — with 
a prayer for him I once loved — with a soul- 
blind influence over me as it came from the 
shadow of his unkindnes§, I looked — I swal- 
lowed the key which opened the portals of 
Eternity and shuddered at what I had done ! 

I slept. And such a sleep ! I dreamed 



120 Wiy She Died. 

of the hours of childhood — of girlhood — ■ of 
wifehood ! And I wished — O ! so earnestly 
wished that he would give me kind words as 
once — that he would pity the ruin he had 
made — that ho would be the lover as of old. 
And then I thought of the road over whose 
stony track 1 had Avalked — of the mockery of 
life I had lived — of the terrible past and its 
great agonies — and — then a pitying angel 
came and kissed the poison from my lips — 
held me to her heart — looked upon me with 
her tear-wet face as she sorrov/ed over my 
troubles. . . ■ . I was in strange worlds. 
For a moment there were tears, then came 
smiles, and looks of hope filled with joy. 
. It seems so stransce there are no unkind 
words here. Soon I will be stronger than now, 
and then I will walk the golden side of the 
Beautiful River to welcome those who come 
here for rest. And I will hold them to my 
heart, even with such tender love as you would 



Why She Died. 121 

the darling so dear to you, and kiss the poison 
from their lips and from their heart. 
But I could not wait till I had told you of this, 
so they came — all these dear, good, God- 
hearted spirits, bearing me on their love to 
speak "with you. And to tell j'ou that we who 
were crushed on earth, but who now rest in the 
Eternal Garden, are building out a point of re- 
membraucc-land from shore to shorten the 
journey, and the sooner welcome all who on 
earth are good, and kind, and loving, and who 
will rest with those they truly love, when 
comes to life its Saturday Night." 





CHAPTER XI. 

THE BEAUTY OF BETTER WORK. 

[HERE is something proudly, grand- 
ly noble in being a workingman. 
There is to lis unspeakable beauty in 
labor ; in being able to trace letters on the 
pure white paper ]>ofore us, to put our 
thoughts in line, and to know that by work we 
have made words, sentences, paragraphs, arti- 
cles, papers, books. And to watch others at 
work. 

The shoemaker fashions from leather, with 
bits of wood and little threads, the shoe which ■ 
covers and protects the foot of a woman, while 
his neighbor, turning from the hot fire of the 
forge to the cold surface of the anvil, with 

122 



The Beauty of Better Work. 123 

sturcl}^ blows oft and oft repeated, fashions and 
finishes his work for the foot of a horse. 
Each are workingmen — each accomplishes 
something, and the world is the better for 
their being here. 

The pioneer, with gleaming ax, tramps his 
w\ay into the forest, sends deep the glittering 
steel into the astonished timber. The birds fly 
in aiFrio;ht. The echoes of his blows run 
through the forest aisles, warning the wilder- 
ness to stand back before the triumphs of 
labor. The tree falls. Its limbs are cut away 
from the trunk. Looking up, its fall left a 
little opening, through which we see the blue 
sky beyond. Again does the ax cut its way — 
another tree falls — a cabin is lifted into shape 
— an opening is made in the forest, a home is 
established there — in time there is a ftirm, a 
pretty bouse, with happy hearts to gather by 
the hearth and fender — and that man has been 



124 The Beauty of Better Work. 

of use to the world. God bless him — he is a 
worker. 

The plowman follows the opening fm-row 
day after day till seed-time has gone — then he 
reaps the reward of his toil, and beholds the 
golden grain which comes from the soil, the 
air, the rain, the light, the heat, to repay his 
efforts, and tell him how glorious it is to labor 
and to achieve. That man is a worker, a 
benefactor. 

Over there is a poor boy. Coarse his garb 

— earnest his eye, intelligent his face. Just 
now he is an apprentice. Day after day he 
works over the scraps of iron — over the forge 

— the lathe, the vise. He uses the file and the 
hammer. His eye reaches farther and ftirther 
into the hidden mysteries of science, till at last 
he is a mechanic, well skilled in his trade. 
See him now at work. The boy has gone — 
the earnest man is before us. He is at work, 
directing others, imparting knowledge, helping 



The Beauty of Better Work. 125 

to create. A boautiful engine or piece of 
machinery is before him. It is his work — 
created out of material other workmen had 
finished in their line. Proud should our nation 
be to call such men her children. 

There is a glory in work when by it we can 
achieve success or win the prize of honorable 
reward. No matter whether that work be in 
the mine or the forest, on the water or the 
laud, in the pulpit or the sanctum, in teaching, 
or in protecting interests, hearts, or innocence. 

There is a man who is a worker. He loves 
a girl. He is all care, love, attention, and 
politeness. He is to her what God is to the 
Christian — the Hope of Life. And she is to 
him, if good, and kind, and loving, and in life- 
harmony with him, a golden-lined pathway, 
outside of whose sacred boundaries he cannot, 
he will not walk. Witness the glorious record 
this worker is making. He builds around a 
home — he builds within one. He Aveeds his 



126 The Beauty of Better Work. 

acts and thoughts and words as a careful man 
docs his garden. He cuts down and pulls up 
the rough, the thorny, the rank-growing and 
beauty -killing Aveeds — he keeps back the cross 
words, the rough, coarse, vulgar, profiine ex- 
pressions, till no more do this troop of devils- 
down seek admission to his heart, for it is each 
day more and more filled with the good, the 
pure, the loving. He works to subdue him- 
self from the wilderness of nature once so 
beautiful, now so weed-grown, and become a 
good, loving, loved, useful man. 

His work brings success. His home is each 
day more attractive. His darling grows into 
his heart as fragrance into the rose before us, 
placed there by loving hands, that the eye, 
when raised from the paper, might rest on the 
beautiful. He feels a pride, a strength, a glo- 
rious heart-rest, which those who are not ear- 
nest heart-workers never know. Ours is not a 



The Beauty of Better Work. 127 

world of chance. It is the result of plan aud 
labor. 

If wc live but chance lives, we float, sink, and 
are lost. If we strive to bo men, we can all 
succeed. If we neglect our work, be it to 
govern ourselves, to make others happier, or to 
bring form and power out of elements, w^e Ixit 
leave the bucket with water to quench our 
thirst half w^ay up the well, to fall back when 
we let go. 

Thousands upon thousands of men who are 
now unhappy, might be contented and full of 
heart-rest, if they would only work. Not 
alone to, build houses but to soften hearts. To 
help the poor. To make others happy. We 
love the workers — for they point to their work 
when comes the nightfall, and truth says they 
lived to a purpose. 

If we work to beautify our hearts, to keep 
them rightly attuned ^preserve our manhood 
— others w^ill follow our example when they 



128 TJie Beauty of Better WorJc. 

know how happy such work makes the man, 
the woman, or the child, and we shall thus be- 
come such perfect workmen that, in the beau- 
tiful Land of the Leal, we shall rest not in 
mind, but in heart, and be with the near and 
dear ones all the Eternal Day which follows 
the soon-coming Saturday Night. 





CHAPTER XII. 

THE LIGHT ON THE SHORE. 

|ERHAPS an hour has passed since 
we bade the widow and three 
little, fatherless mourners " Good- 
bye," and then walked slowly homeward, think- 
ing of those we love ; of the beautiful flowers 
kind hands to-day so nicely arranged on our 
desk ; of the weeping, starving mother who 
this morning called to see if we could not in- 
fluence a pardon for an erring child in prison — 
of the home of poverty we visited this after- 
noon — of the funeral we attended — of the 
past and the present of one who mourned, and 
of the happiness which is ours to know that 

9 129 



130 Tlie Light on the Shore. 

WG have such true, loving, earnest, heaven-lit 
eyes to smile upon us — such good friends to 
sustain us, and such a glorious work as is ours 
to be engaged in. 

And though it is Saturday Night — though 
all the week we have worked each day from 
morn till midnight — though we are very 
weary, we are happy to know that during all 
the years of strife, toil, and bitter trials, we 
have preserved our manhood and saved our 
strength for good. 

Perhaps before comes another Saturday 
Night we may be called to our rest here and 
our work there. O ! Avill it not be glorious to 
(JO home, and be with the loved watchers and 
the ones who so often and often led us into that 
wondrously beautiful future, where every 
flower is more fragrant than the rose, and every 
-act, thought, and deed born of that golden, 
mellow, hallowed love, which kindles continu- 
ally the glory of the Eternal ! 



The Light on the Shore. 131 

Soou we will come, golden-haired watchers 
and waiters who so ofteii troop down to the 
brink of the river we are sometimes so near 
across, and then we will rest and listen to the 
continuation of the wondrous chapters you are 
so kind as to tell us when others little dream 
where our thoughts are resting or mind roam- 
ing. . . . 

To-night we have been almost Over the 
Kiver. We have seen a few cross safely to the 
golden sands, but he whom we buried to-day 
was not with those ive kiioiv await our coming, 
and who so often smile on us by day and by 
night. We looked for him, but he was not 
there. We asked if such an one had passed 
that way. And they Avho line the other bank 
shook their heads and said they were looking 
not for him, but for the ones he left to mourn 
— for the broken-hearted mother and the three 
little ones he had left to test the bitter charity 
of the world and to starve in neo-lect. 



132 The Light on the Shore. 

He died Thursday night. We buried him 
to-day. Once ho was our playmate. Once 
with him we built castles in the air and roamed 
the hills together. Long, weary, heart-marked 
years ago. He was richer than we in boyhood. 
He had friends who were wealthy, and could do 
as he pleased. He was a favorite at parties 
where we could not enter. He was gay, light- 
hearted, attractive. But sometimes we thought 
him selfish ; too proud and overbearing — too 
careless of the fceliugs of others. 

One day he told us not to be so familiar in 
chatting with a girl, for he loved her. And 
she such a sensitive, delicate little thing. We 
looked at him with wide-opened eyes. He 
simply, yet authoritatively said " Yes," and that 
was lasv. What could weakness do against 
strength when the heart was dumb, numb, and 
so wondrously quiet? Answer, you who can. 



The Light on the Shore, 133 

One day, sitting iu the shade, we saw tears 
iu her eyes. She rested her hand in the one 
that now guides the pen to this writing, and 
looked into our face with a waiting look, as do 
those who now watch all about us. We were 
tempted to tell her something, when a step was 
heard — a voice called her — she arose and left 
us. Her hand has not been in ours since. 
. One day they were married. It 
seems but yester eve. But since y ester eve all 
those lines where grief is encamped could not 
have gathered, so we know it was years ago ! 
She asked us to her wedding, but we had not 
time to go. The minister pronounced them 
man and wife. 

Then he ordered the wine, and he joked with 
those assembled. And he drank the health of 
each guest, and of his bride, and to his absent 
friends. And he ordered the servants to do 
this and that. And he ordered a carriage — he 
ordered her to get ready to ride — he ordered 



134 The Light on the Shore. 

her to tell them good-by — and he ordered the 
driver to go ahead. 

One day she came to us — but who would 
have known her? How years do mark the 
faces of those whose hearts are bruised ! He 
had lost all. Dissipation had ruined him. 
For years he had come and gone with scarce 
a thought of others than himself. His pleas- 
ure. His enjoyment. His life. His power. 
His selfishness. The little ones who came — 
the little patches of sunshine which came to 
brighten her home, feared and knew not what it 
was to love him. When he came they were 
silent; when he commanded she obeyed. 
Men said he was coarse, vulgar, proftme, self- 
ish, intolerant and unforgiven. But perhaps 
they did not know. She never said so. 

When weary he would go home to rest. 
When drunk he would go home to become 



Tlie Light on the Shore. 135 

sober. And he used to curse her and called 
himself a man ! 

When he left his better self his friends left too. 
As they always will do. Fortune closed her 
hand, so he could no more draw flowers from 
her grasp. The lines on her face — the grief to 
her heart — the dead look to her eye, did come, 
but no word of complaint ; for the heart of a 
true woman is proud as her grief is sacred. 

We found him sick — without friends — 
without money — without love, except that 
unhallowed kind w^hich is born of duty alone. 
Home of his own he had none — it was lonor 
since gone. We found him a wreck. For 
years he had only looked into the wine-cup — 
not into the future. And now, when we found 
him he could not, dared not, look beyond the 
clouds before him. 

Once — years ago, "we almost hated him. 
But not now. Once he seemed to pity us be- 



136 Tlie Light on the Shore. 

cause we were weak. We pitied him now, for 
he needed it. 

One night — after the watch before us beside- 
a vial of medicine marked the hour of two, we sat 
looking into the future, when he turned, and 
our eyes met. How glances will run into the 
past as a keen blade thrusting deeply ! He 
looked at the blankets on the floor where she 
and they slept, in want, poverty and weariness. 
Then the tears came to his eyes, as he reached 
a little way out from the coarse sheet which 
partly covered him. Hand in hand, our hearts 
dropped back into the fog of the past, beyond 
its darkness, and into the sunshine of early life, 
when, he said, in tones so low, so heart- 
wretched in utterance : — 

"Mark — we were boys years ago. I was 
the stronger then. Look at me now. Very 
soon — yes, very soon — and it will all be over. 
But there is 410 light on yonder shore for me ! 
I am lost — lost in the fog, as once you re- 



The Lirjld on the Shore. 137 

member I was in the woods. She who sleeps 
youder, I wou, took by force, for I wanted 
none else to have her. She has been good to 
me — too ofood for one who — who — who lived 

for himself alone. It is hard to go now 

to leave her and them to to pov- 
erty to want to distress to the 

care of strangers, when I, who was a man — 

have not left even a penny or a good name 

for their support. Won't you for their 

sake, be good to them, and and help them 

sometimes ? " . 

And very soon he went. Out on the waves. 
Out in the darkness. Out over bitter and 
troubled waters. Out in search of the shore 
where no light beamed for him, for so he told 
us ; and if he did not know, who should ? 
The cries and plaints of those he left behind 
will not call him back, for they will be cared 
for, even as we promised him under the seal of 
death ! 



138 TliG Licjlit on the 8hore. 

And now, golden-haired watchers, and 
warm-hearted welcomers on the Eternal shore, 
will ye not go up and down till ye find him? 
He is there, somewhere, for he has gone from 
us here. Perhaps he has not yet reached you, 
for the sea is wide to those who have no light 
on yonder shore, who bear such heavy loads, 
and who do not know the Way as we do. But 
he will come when his load is washed away. 
Ye will know him. A man once so stout — so 
manly — so vigorous — so strong when we 
were weak ; as we were till you threw your 
wondrous light and golden shadows so full 
upon us and across our path. Ye will know 
him by his dissipation-marked fiice — by his 
haggard look — by his worn-out nerves — by 
his bankruptcy ! 

Find him, if ye can, and care for him, till 
some day or hour of Eternity, when those who 
reach the shore, and the lis-ht in the East which 



The Light on the Shore. 139 

so "welcomes, shall have journeyed far into the 
interior, he may be able to follow after. 

And good friends Over There, if ye cannot 
find him will ye not throw yom^ light into the 
hearts of many — O ! so many of our broth- 
ers, as ye have in ours, that they may see and 
know the way? And will ye not breathe 
gentle rest and buoyant hope into the hearts of 
all the weary wives and neglected children of 
the land — into the hearts of all who are or- 
phaned and left on the desert coast of a 
drunken memory, lest they too be lost? And 
good friends who so smile upon us each day, 
will ye not fill with kind thoughts all who 
would be better, that there may be a light on 
yonder shore when shall come to us all who are 
here waiting our looked-for Saturday Night9 



CHAPTER XIII. 



BACK TO HER HOME. 




O you remember about the poor 
woman who came to our office . some 
months ago, pleading with tear-wet 
face for somebody to help find her daughter 
who had come to this city to lose herself in the 
whirlpool of dissipation? We wrote about 
her bringing a skeleton — the sorrow of her 
heart — to our sanctum. And her story was 
this : — 

Her daughter had left the parental roof. 
Without a chart or compass — she had come to 
New York to follow a life of recklessness. 
The poor mother mourned for her darling. 
She brought us her picture — she told her age, 

140 



Bach to Her Home. 141 

her size, her peculiarities of features, and 
conversation, and, after we promised to find 
the wandering one, she returned with tear-wet 
face and grief-laden heart to her vine-clad cot- 
tage in a distant town. 

Wq were to write to her mother if we suc- 
ceeded. Daj^s ran into weeks — weeks into 
months. We asked the chief of a detective 
department to aid us. No tidings of the lost 
one. 

One day, in the workshops on Blackwell's 
Island, where six hundred once innocent but 
then miserable girls were serving out their sen- 
tence, we saw a face like that of the photo- 
graph left with us. There could be no mis- 
take. The golden curls were gone, but the 
face and the eyes were unmistakable. The 
officers of the prison gave us permission to 
speak with her. 

" What is your name ? " 

'' Ella Morgan ! " 



142 Back to Her Home. 

" No — your other name — the one your 
mother gave you?" 

" None of your business ! " 

"Come to the wmdow, put your hand in 
that one ; then look us in the face." 

"I obey, for I am a prisoner — you wish 
to humiliate me before all these wretched 
people." 

" Come to the private office for a few mo- 
ments ! " 

Downstairs we went to a quiet little prison- 
like room. 

"Now Ella Morgan — look us in the face and 
see if we ^came to humiliate you. We know 
your name now — the prison register tells us. 
But your name then ! When you lived in a 
vine-clad cottage in the country. When you 
kissed your mother, and made her happy. 
Your name before you left home one Tuesday 
afternoon by a train for this city. Your name 
when it was ! " 



Back to Her Home. 143 

" O ! for the love of God — don't speak it 
aloud ! Don't whisper it even. ' You know all 
— who are you — what do you want — why are 
you here — what have I done ? Tell me — O ! 
tell me, and pity me — kill me — anything, 
but don't speak that other name ! If you do 
so others will hear, I'll die. O ! sir, don't ! 
For the love of God ! don't ! " 

" Look us in the face — never mind the 
tears. We do know all. Your mother came 
to us — she wept like a child for you — her 
poor heart is broken — she is dying in her 
home out yonder for the loss of her only dar- 
ling. She M^ants you to come back to her — 
she will never ask where you have been ! " 

"O, sir, I can not go back ! Anywhere but 
there ! To prison — to torture — to ruin — to 
death ! But I can not — I will not go home, to 
be a by-word — to see my mother die — to 
know that I have brought this sorrow on her, 
as it is in tenfold weight upon me ! No ! 



144 Back to Her Home, 

Let me live where I am lost — lost — mi- 
kiiown ! O, good sir, please do this — and 
I'll be your slave! I'll work for you — steal 
for you! I'll be anything jow ask — do any- 
thing you ask — iind a resting-place in the 
deepest dens of sin, if you will only not tell 
my mother — not force me to go back to her ! 
I can not again look in her good face ! " 

" Clara ! look here ; place your palm on 
mine ; never mind the tears. Now tell us, 
have you one true, loving friend in all the 
world who knows you only as Ella Morgan ? " 

"No; not one!" 

"How long since you came here?" 

"Twenty-five days." 

" How long to stay ? " 

"Thirty days in all." 

"Well, you will stay them here. And then 
your clothes will be given back to j^ou, in 
place of that coarse garment of serge. You 
will come to see us. Come with a gentleman 




•• Down stiiirs we went, to a quiet Utile pviaou-liku looui.-' — Seepage i-U 



Bach to Her Home. 145 

wc M'ill send for you. Come in a ciirriage, 
with the windows up, so no one will see you to 
annoy. You come to us, sure. You will 
COME, This is no place for you! You have 
suffered enough — your future will be brighter. 
Where are your things — your clothes, etc?" 

"At No. — West Twenty-sixth street." 

" Were you there when arrested ? " 

"Yes, sir." 

"What for?" 

" They said I stole a man's watch while he 
was drunk in the parlor, but I did not. Some 
one did, and put it in my pocket — I did not, 
so help me God ! " 

" Well — we never would arrest any one for 
stealing in such 'places. Let those who go 
there to reap take their own chances. But 
give us an order for all your things — we will 
have them where you will find them when you 
come." 

"But — but I don't want to ! " 
10 



146 Back to Her Home. 

"Yes, you do — give us the order. Aud 
you will come. Somebody wants to see you. 
Somebody will be happier than ever before in 
her life. You will come — and come gladly — 
to the dearest friend on earth — one who loves 
you — who will ask nothing of your visit 
here ! " 

" Yes — I'll come — in four days more be- 
sides this." 

"We'll await you. And now, , not 

Clara — good-by — God save you. Throw 
the past behind you — be brave for the present 
— live for the one who best loves you for the 
future — come in four days — till then, good- 
by. . 

Yesterday afternoon she came, without her 
prison garb, so unlike the poor girl we saw 
there. The middle-aged woman, who for an 
hour had been sitting, standing, crying, laugh- 
ing, walking the floor, never at rest, w^s her 



Back to Her Home. 147 

mother, who came to the city yesterday morn- 
ing. She wanted to know where we found her 
darling child. We told her in a large work- 
shop, or manufacturing establishment, on the 
east side of the city. 

We met her at the door. There were two 
cries of joy. As we passed out upon the 
street for a few moments, we heard sobs and 
broken words, but no curses. 

A few moments later we found them to- 
gether — the great tears of joy rolling down 
their cheeks as both arose to meet us. 

The poor girl was brave as a heroine of the 
revolution. She told all — told more than we 
did. For an hour she sat and talked of the 
terrible past. She told how she had longed 
for the world — how she had given herself 
away, never thinking — how she thought she 
was smart and able to take care of herself — 
how she had lived in dissipation ; on excite- 



148 BacJ^ to Her Home. 

meiit ; drinking wine ; submitting herself to 
that which her soul abhorred for dress, hating 
herself the while. Theu she told of her hours 
of sorrow — her days of pain and agony — her 
bitter thoughts — her gradual growing reck- 
lessness — her indifference to all save having a 
revel, and an hour of hilarious dissipation, 
which would bring sleep to drown thought, till 
every voice of our heart prayed — 

" God pity the unfortunate and give them to 
some keeping of earnest love rather than this 
living hell 1 " 

The two wept, and wept. And they laughed 
and seemed so happy in being together. 

A few hours since they left the city, and two 
happier women we never saw. The mother 
sold her little cottage and the two will find a 
home elsewhere. The poor girl left her ill- 
gotten wardrobe, left all save the keepsakes 
she brought from home, for she could never 



Bach to Hev Home. 149 

again look upon the purchases made at such a 
fearful price. 

Fast as steam can drive, the cars which bear 
them are going swiftly away. The skeleton 
the mother brought us months ago is now 
clothed in love and once more perfect, for that 
great Power which cares for us as we care for 
ourselves, has spoken peace to the troubled 
heart, and she walks to her salvation. We pray 
God to keep them — to care for them. And 
may the secret of her visit never be revealed 
to bring her sorrow. Would to God all peo- 
ple had more charity for those who fall — more 
heart to help them up — more kind words for 
the erring. 

Happy days are in store for that young girl. 
She has sickened of her life on ruin's road. 
Somebody loves her, and will not ask of the 
past, but will give to her an earnest heart — a 
true love — a kind, loving home and that heart- 
rest she never knew while living against her 



150 Bach to Her Home, 

■womauhood — against nature. It is not what 
we have been but what we are that makes us 
good or bad. And what we will be need not 
worry us if we labor for the right all the days 
of the week — guided by our hearts and by 
our loves through the days of life unto the last 
and the welcome Saturday Night. 




CHAPTER XIV.. 



DYING AS WE WRITE. 




HIS Saturday Night is one of storm, 
of rude fitful gusts — of danciug 
leaves — sharp, hurricane whistling, 
and we are very weary. All the week we have 
worked more industriously than ever before, for 
there is so much to do ! Not till long after 
twelve each night have we sought our resting- 
place to gather strength for the morrow. 

And not even one little bit do we feel like 
writing to-night, for we 'are sad and weary. 
Weary from overwork. Sad from what we 
have seen. 

This afternoon we saw two policemen with a 
drunken woman in a handcart. One was 

151 



152 Di/ing as We Write. 

drawing, the other pushing. Crowds followed 
to gloat their eyes over misery. 

" Who have you ? " 

" One of them ! " 

"Wliatistlw matter?" 

" Only drunk." 

'' Going to the station ? " 

" No — we are taking her home." 

"Where was she?" 

" Don't ask so many questions ! Come with 
us and I'll tell you all about her. She went 
down to Houston street and got on a breeze — 
was upset out in the alley, drunk, and we are 
taking her home." 

Into a by-street — upstairs to a room with 
shattered shutters — a patch of carpet — a bed 
— a cheap wash-stand — a scratched bureau — 
an old trunk in a corner — a little cupboard 
over the mantel wherein were a few bottles, 
some cold corn beef, a bottle of ale, two cigars, 



Dying as We lorite. 153 

a greasy pack of cards, and a few little articles 
of bead-dress. 

The occupants of tbe other rooms stared at 
us as the insensible woman was carried to tbe 
third story to tbe room above spoken of, which 
an old dame said was hers. Two women dis- 
robed her while we looked about tbe premises. 
They laid her on tbe coarse bed, and called our 
attention to great bruises over the ribs — over 
the stomach — a long, dark bruise across the 
back, where some one must have struck her a 
fearful blow. And a dark, greenish ])lack 
spot, half the size of our band, just under tbe 
left breast, told us she had been kicked there 
by some one terribly in anger. 

Very soon one of tbe policemen returned 
with a physician, and then they both went away 
to see who had done all this. Tbe aged, white- 
haired physician with care examined her — 
shook his head. 

" Badly injured, doctor? " 



154 Dying as We write. 

" Yes — internally. She cannot live long. 
Somebody has nearly killed her." 
" Under the influence of liquor ? " 
"Yes — she has been drinking very hard." 
And the poor girl, or rather a woman of 
about twenty-one or two years, lay there 
breathing heavily. 

Her dark hair hung disheveled from a clear- 
cut brow. Her eyes were closed — her lips set 
as if in pain — her heaving, bruised bosom giv- 
ing evidence of suffering. She did not look 
like a bad or vicious girl. Only unfortunate/ 

Her name was Clara — so the landlady said. 
She paid three dollars a week for the use of 
the room. She came and she went, alone or 
with company, and no one knew when, where 
from, or who was with her. For such is the 
fashion in places where no one cares what be- 
comes of another. From other rooms came 
sounds of mirth and echoes of fearful pro- 
fanity, as women in half dress or tawdry finery 



Dying as We write. 155 

joked with coming or departing guests, or 
swore at each other. To hear such words, 
such slang, such thieves' jargon, such vulgar, 
profane, indecent words from woman's lips 
made us sad. It made us look for a moment 
on all women as bad, yet ive know they are 
not. Only when a woman falls, she falls 
lower, and soon becomes more disgusting in 
her misery and her sin than man, for she gives 
herself wholly to her abandon. Because she 
has loved — has lost — society scourges her 
with hot Vv'ords and lash of devilism, just as 
society takes fiendish delight in torturing the 
weak ! 

And she, poor drunken, murdered Clara, is 
dying. God pity her more than man does. 
We do not know who she was, or what her 
history. But she is a woman. She would be 
beautiful when dressed, but in all her wardrobe 
was nothing beautiful. There was a little hat 
with a red feather. A liirht white cloak or 



156 Dying as We write. 

jacket. Some ribbons stitched on an old 
dress, and she was ready for the street — for a 
life sinful, hazardous, awful, terrible — but yet 
her life — all there was of it left to her. 

O ! merciful Power ! O ! Great One above 
us all ! Pity, O ! pity those who thus live 
their life, and drink the bitter dregs thrown 
into their cup by hot-blooded, heartless, cruel, 
reckless humanity. 

We have seen her in her pain, her agony, 
her sorrow, her death ; as we have written this 
simple fact chapter. Dying! Murdered by 
scores of murderers ! By the one who first 
struck her down ! By the parents who did not 
guard her properly. By the society and Chris- 
tianity which drove her forth, kicked her in 
the face, l^randed her as with a hot stamping- 
iron, seared her soul and tossed her with 
curses, gibes j jeers, and devilish malignity, 
into the living Potter's Field to which those 
who would escape therefrom are driven back, 



Dying as We tor He. 157 

and" back, and back ! to their dregs, to their 
death — to their God's-pity ! 

Who she was we know not. We never saw 
her before. Where was she from? Why 
came she here ? Was she lured from her home 
and its protections? Was she poisoned by 
flatter}'', love of dress, and vain show, the 
glances of men, the remarks on her pretty 
face, hands, feet, or form? Was she be- 
deviled by seductive arts and man's higher 
electrical powers till her soul fell — till she 
knew not, saw not, cared not for the conse- 
quences of the one fatal yielding ? Or was she 
driven out from home by the cold, cruel, 
harsh, unfeeling, heart-crushing treatment so 
many men and women give their children by 
the hearth and fender, all the while thinking it 
parental duty to harden rather than soften the 
heart and mellow the life ? 

She was somebody's daughter. Perhaps 
somebody's sister. May be somebody's be- 



158 laying «5 We write. 

trothed. But now, O God !■ pity her — take 
her — keep her — renew her purity in- the Land 
of the Leal by Thy wonderful alchemy, and give 
her there the friends, the life, the happiness 
not hers to enjoy on earth. 

Once she was good and pure. Her infant 
hands rested on the face of a father — the 
bosom of a mother. Her little smile gave joy. 
Her little lips kissed as sweetly as do the 
lips of thousands whose fathers aud mothers 
will read this chapter. Once she nestled in 
the arms, and in the heart of somebody. Lit- 
tle did that somebody know she was to die 
thus, or they had rather she had died in her 
innocent infancy. 

Perhaps she was to blame for this sorrow to 
some extent. But not all. Perhaps her 
mother, her Either, never tried to teach her. 
Then they are guilty of her murder. Perhaps 
her father was cross, cold, ugly, dissipated, and 
neglectful of his duty as a man, and as a parent. 



Dying as We write. 159 

Thus teaching her that home was not a place 
for happiness. Perhaps he disgusted her 
young life, and thereby planted seeds for the 
weeds that grow in shame over the grave of the 
unfortunate. Perhaps he was coarse, rough, 
brutal, unfeeling, and thus drove her forth to 
wander in bitterness. 

Perhaps he himself died a poor victim to 
dissipation and threw his loved ones upon a 
cruel world, not to be supported, but tempted, 
tossed, trampled upon, and driven to anything 
for that life which, but for the love we all have 
of life, had better be lost ! How many thou- 
sands of loving ones have been thrown into 
temptations from cold, unfeeling homes, where 
cross words, bitter words, unloving words ; 
bare floors, bare walls, and lack of comfort 
have steeled the heart and fitted it to risk any 
chance rather than endure torture ! 

But she is dying. Poor, bruised, heart- 
wrecked, murdered one ! Some may say. 



160 Dy^'>^9 ^"5 TFe lorite. 

" Good euou2:h for her ! " For shame ! Are 
hearts thus cruel boru of God or devils ? 

Look upon your loved ones and tell ns if 
you would curse them, should they fall by the 
way when too weak to walk ! And see if you 
cannot save your own, and help save others. 
If they fall help them up again and be kind to 
them. Pity, but do not condemn, for it may 
be you will condemn the one who is not to 
blame ! And then who will be the most guilty? 

Soon they will bear her away. No one will 
weep over her grave. A cheap funeral. No one 
will wonder where she is — why she comes not. 
She will not be seen on the streets with that 
wild, hunted, horror look — but some one 
else will take her place. The little room will 
be let for three dollars a week to some one 
else. The bed where is dying, the bruised girl 
will soon be cleared of its burden — the sheets 
spread smoothly — her little keepsakes over- 



Dying as We Write. 161 

hauled and thrown away, and no one will miss 
her. 

God love those who are good — and those 
who are striving to do right — who are true, 
and kind, and loving to each other. Let us 
forgive and forget the little spots of the past, 
as God will forgive us all our life-blotches. 
Let us do anything rather than drive the heart- 
wrecked ones to death, or to that dissipation in 
unloving recklessness which leads thereto. 

Then come, loved one, closer and still closer 

to the lips, the love, the arms which will pror 

tect thee, and the heart which loves, and so 

let all our hearts and lives be filled with such 

goodness and charity, as will make us who are 

but mortals not forget that others are mortal ; 

tempted and unprotected, not strong. For if 

we have not charity, how will others have tears 

or charity for us when comes to earthly life its 

rqst and final Saturday Night ? 
11 



CHAPTER XV. 



HOME, AND WHY IT IS HOME, 




IE built a castle in the air ! All the 
years of our life were we building 
it. Some there were who laughed 
at us ; but what of that ? Let those laugh who 
win. And so to-night, as we sit by the table 
in our little home, not man nor monarch is 
half so happy as we. 

Years ago, when the heart was 'hopeful, we 
looked ahead to the time when we might have 
a haj^py home, and beautiful works of art 
therein on which to rest the eye, as the beau- 
tiful queen of the home would rest our heart. 
But how should we have all this, and when? 

162 



Home, and Why It Is Home. 163 

By work — whispei^ed the spirit of pluck, and 
so we learned to labor and to wait. And so 
we have worked these many years — always 
contented and hopeful. Content to labor, hop- 
ing to enjoy the reward, as do all who are 
creative, and thus fit to work Over There for 
the completion of the wondrous revealment. 

Ours now is a beautiful home. Here we are 
happy and content. These walls we helped 
build. Not that we piled high the brick, iron, 
stone and marble one above the other, or 
helped drive the nails. But we worked at 
something else, and earned to pay for this. 
And now we are very, very happy, and never 
a man so stout of heart. Woelt does not tire 
us, for we see the result and reward earnest 
work does bring. 

This little place we call - home. And the 
beautiful pictures on the walls all about. The 
carpet on the floors, so we can walk while our 
darling sleeps just there — so we can rest our 



164 Home, and Why It Is Home. 

left hand on her brow, cand not waken her, for 
she is weary, perhaps. The chairs, the tables, 
the sofas, the ottomans,^ the easy-chairs — the 
books, musical instruments and all these scores 
of beautiful things in the room, we earned ! 
They are ours. Honestly ours. Never a man, 
woman, or child robbed of a single penny for 
their obtaining. 

It is glorious to work. Little by little we 
have won all these by honest toil. And we 
have put them together — and here, sur- 
rounded by what we have earned, and cared 
for by the one we love, we are happy. And 
strong to create or to earn more — to help 
others — to entourage the good — to draw 
sword, if need be, in defence of virtue, the 
widow, and the fatherless. 

We pity those who have no homes, who 
have no happy homes, where life passes in 
love, contentment, and enjoyment of perfect 
confidence in each other. We pity those 



Home, and Why It Is Home. 165 

•whose lives are wasting away in dissipation, 
till they will enter the Eternal so wasted and 
unimproved that they will be but specks on 
the floors, so to speak. And we pity all who 
are not happy — who are not mated and in 
unison of feeling one with the other — who do 
not feel it a joy to live for and with each 
other ; for, after all, this is the true life, which 
is but the germ of Love Eternal. For those 
who cannot love each other here and have sym- 
pathy with all, are not guided aright. 

It is very still out-of-doors to-night. It is 
near midnight, still our work is not quite done. 
That is, we cannot sleep yet, nor»can we bear 
to waken the dear one who slumbers just be- 
side us. So we let her rest. She has been 
such a help to us. Has cared for us so kindly 
and with such tenderness, as Mary cared for 
Him she so loved while He was on earth. 
When we are sick and prostrate from over- 



166 Home, and Why It Is Home. 

work, how like a ray of light from Over There 
does she come with careful whispers, gentle 
touch, sweet breath and absorbing solicitude to 
watch over and care for us ! 

How carefully she closes the blinds and 
draws the curtains to exclude the light while 
we sleep ! How well does she remember the 
most minute item of instructions given by the 
good physician, who also comes to lend his aid 
and skill ! 

And when the pain blinds our eyes, and 
nearly sets us wild, how her soft fingers, 
gently passing over throbbing temples and 
fever-heated brow, will quiet the little devils 
1*1 the burning blood, and teach them obedi- 
ence to her will ! It is she who opens and 
closes the door so noiselessly, and makes her- 
self again our saviour for the continuation of 
the work we know it is our duty to perform 
here to be fitted for Over There.. 

Yes, this is our home. And she is our 



Home, and Why It Is Home. 167 

darling. Perhaps you do not like her; we do. 
Perhaps you love her. Not so well as we do. 
You may think her beautiful. So -she is; but 
to one who has studied life, there is no beauty 
like that of her pure mind and God-given in- 
tellect. You may not think her beautiful. 
You do not know her — her pure life — her 
confiding love — her sympathy and generous 
willingness to aid us in all that will make 
others happy or alleviate sufiering. You do 
not know how happy she makes our home — 
how she cares while we labor ; how she be- 
lieves in us and thus puts it upon our honor to 
be good and true ; how her heart goes out to 
those who are needy, in distress, unfortunate. 
She is sleeping now. Never a babe sleeping 
more sweetly. A smile on her face even yet 
— this hour and more there resting, as the 
hand, so soft, so fair, so full of kindness even 
in its sleeping touch, resting so temptingly 
where we can reach it in a moment. We 



^ 



168 Home, and Why It Is Home. 

know she is happy, and do wish that all the 
women in the land were as happy as is she. 
When conies the hour for rest, then come we 
to our home. This makes it a home. And a 
man will always be where his heart is, and it is 
well that it is so. She is not afraid to trust 
us, and does trust us implicitly. And so 
trusting, not for all the wealth of the world 
would we deceive her, for then would her hap- 
piness and our happiness be gone, and regret- 
ful sorrow be left in its stead. 

Who does not love a happy home? Who is 
there not striving to obtain one? And who 
does not worship those who make him happy 
— even as we worship God because He has 
promised us eternal happiness? And so we 
love her who is sleeping just here. She is 
very, very good to us. To all she is ever a 
lady, never stooping to gossip, to slander, to 
tattling of her neighbors, never envious, but 
always so pure, gentle, earnest and womanly 



Home, and Why It Is Home. 1C9 

that we cannot help writing of her, and stop- 
ping now and then to press light kisses on her 
brow, and to study the face and the life of our 
darling, but for whom home would not be 
home — life not be life — happiness not happi- 
ness, and words of promise perhaps not so 
sacredly kept. 

And so, while she sleeps so beautiful and so 
beautifully, we pass this chapter, perhaps the 
very last we can or ever shall write, into a 
tribute to home, and to the pure, virtuous, 
loving, noble, refined women of the land, who 
do so much to make man and home happy, but 
who are too often unappreciated sufferers at 
the hands and hearts of those who have no 
love for the beauties of home and the love 
which surrounds and hallows it. May the love 
and care of our ""ood ansrels be with all who 
strive to make home, no matter how humble it 
may be, happy as is ours this finished Saturday 
Night. 





E 




^s 


^^^^^ 



CHAPTER XVI. 



WORKING AND WAITING. 




E knew it would come ! 
The best of all the nights given us 
to think, to rest, to resolve — the 
Satiuxhiy Night. All we had to do with its 
coming was to labor earnestly and wait content- 
edly. A.11 in good time, as 'twas appointed, 
the good night has come, and now we can en- 
joy the heart-resting reward ^t brings, and look 
at the picture on which we have labored. A 
week. A picture with seven ideas — each one 
a day. And so we are all artists. 

The week is the canvas. Wq are the artists. 



Events are the colors. 



When comes the beau- 

170 



Working and Waiting. 171 

tiful Saturday Night, this one of our pictures is 
finished, and is taken on the breath of the 
dying week, to be looked at by Ilim who is 
Love and Power, and then hung in the Great 
Parlor, or out in the Ilubbish Room, as the 
picture is worthy. Each picture will be the 
simple record of our acts. If they be good and 
suggestive of the beautiful, they will be given 
place with other pictures of beauty. If not, 
they will not be hung where they will mar the 
scene or detract from other beauties. Over 
There will be two exhibition rooms — for the 
good and the bad. And we shall look at our 
pictures and see wherein we failed or suc- 
ceeded, for time is the pencil that to the canvas 
of Eternity our every act transmits. 

And so the weeks come and go. Each Sat- 
urda}^ night we pause to look at our work 
before the midnight hour takes from the frame 
the canvas whereon we have wrought, and a 
fresh one for the week to come in its place 



172 Worlcing and Waiting. 

doth leave ! We earnestly try to discover 
where we have touched too lightly or too heav- 
ily. We try to see if Ave have in the least 
failed to do strict justice with liberal tinting 
given to all — for we are none of us perfect. 

And let us strive, good friends, that each Sat- 
urday Night our work may seem more and 
more worthy to be called a picture. These 
pictures have many defects. Cross words. 
Marks of reckless temper, heated by words of 
others, which pain and wound. If we each 
week labor more and more for the poor, the 
oppressed, the weary-hearted and overtasked, 
it seems as if we were drinking deeper of that 
pure water which so takes away selfishness and 
directs the soul to good deeds and generous 
impulses. Those who are on the right road 
and nearing a happy home, where loved ones 
with outstretched arms aAvait them, feel the 
heart grow lighter over the lessening dis- 
tance. 



Wbrlcing and Waiting. 173 

And it is so beautiful to have a home — a 
■welcome — a reward of love, to draw you to 
that rest so few know. Is it not heaven to 
know that in all its world there is one spot 
where you can rest — one heart to rest with — 
one presence, as that of a God, in which you 
can bask and grow strong for the race and the 
work of the morrow? To feel that there is 
one to Avhom you can go with all 3'our troubles, 
doubts and fears — one who will listen to you 
in love, forgive and forgive again, if need be, 
till manhood, ashamed of its weakness, is 
purified to strength by love protected. A 
home on earth to which we can come and find 
one who will listen to us and lift us up, as He 
who is so good will listen to us, forgive, and 
throw about our spirits the golden light of 
pure life-thoughts, till we shall, by our own 
earnest efibrts and His protecting direction, 
grow away from that part of our nature which, 



174 Working and Waiting. 

unchecked and uncontrolled, holds us to the 
earth and to misery. 

As our home Over There will be beautiful, 
so is our home here, and our work, and our 
resting. As this Saturday Night has come, so 
will others, and then we shall rest in happi- 
ness. We know it. For it has been told us. 
And the same one who has so helped us here 

— so encouraged and rewarded us by kind 
words and gentle care — will go home with us 

— we may be separated a little while, but we 
shall be united, never to part, with no more 
mortal experiments, living, resting, rewarded 
for our earnest working and continued con- 
stancy here by a never-ending life and labor 
without weariness in that Land of the Leal 
whose Alpha and Omega will be Love and 
Power Eternal. 

All this for those who make perfect life- 
pictures here. Who dare follow the great 
light hung high in the heavens for all who 



Working and Waiting. 175 

dare look up and follow, no matter what the 
crowd may say. AH this for those who dare 
stand erect before man, bowing only before 
the Holy Presence. Who dare live lives to 
reach, and walk in paths by higher powers 
directed, caring nothing for the criticism of 
those whose work or pictures are no more per- 
fect than our own ! 

Ifwe live for the speech of men here, we 
do not live for the Great Reward there, for the 
criticism of Time has no weight in Eternity, 
except through the certainty that good deeds 
will follow us as flowers bloom over graves to 
mark where rests the face after the smile has 
gone, and where molds the worn-out tene- 
ment of the soul. 

All in good time reward will come. The 
rivulet reaches the ocean after its race be run, 
not before. It sings on its way and gives joy. 
It gives life to what it touches, and a home to 



176 Wbrkviff and Waiting. 

the beauties which live in its waters. In good 
time it mixes with the waters of the deep, and 
the whispered eloquence of the rivulet is 
mingled in the great prayer to God from the 
depths of its harmonious life. 

To fret, to scold, to worry ourselves and 
worry others, will not add beauty to the pic- 
ture. Stopping work at noon will not bring 
the sunset and the proper hour for rest. 
Annoying others will not make us happier. 
Harsh words Avill not lighten our own hearts. 
There is more of life than all this. If this 
person does this, or that person does that, all 
this is nothing to our eternal effecting, for we 
are judged and given Avork to do Over There, 
not for our meddling, our ftiult-finding, our 
interfering with that which does not concern 
us, but for ability and willingness to govern 
ourselves and work on our own pictures. 

And if our work be well done — if we shall 



WbrJcing and Waiting. 



177 



strive to make only beautiful pictures, happy 
•will we be in enjoying the beautiful rest which 
will be for all who well and truly work and 
wait for the final Saturday Night. 




CHAPTER XVn. 



TRYING TO BE RICH ! 




GAIN goes a week with its won- 



drous freight of good and evil 



of 



joy and sorrow — of life and death, 
as the wail of the new-born and moan of tho 
dying make the woof and warp of our exist- 
ence. 

And what a checkered life is this at best I 
And how foolish are we all to so cling to its 
labors and to dread the comins: hour of dissolu- 
tion and release from earth, which is the prison 
of the soul. 

To-night a boy came to our room. A pale- 
faced, studious, honest-looking little fellow of 

178 



Trying to he Rich. 179 

twelve years. We were seated at the desk in 
our private apartment, when there came a 
timid knock on the door. Doubting whether 
any one rapped or not, we bade a pleasant en- 
trance, and the little fellow stood before us. 

. Now he has gone out we will tell our lit- 
tle boy friends about our conversation. This 
boy who called on us to-night was a poor — a 
very poor boy. He worked in a kindling-wood 
factory up town. A place where pine cord- 
wood is sawed into little blocks about six inches 
long, then split up into sticks about an inch 
square, tied into little bundles large enough to 
fill the crown of your hat, and sold to be used 
in kindlmg coal fires in grates. 

His hands were ever so hard — just as ours 
were once, years ago, when we were a poor 
boy working on a farm, husking corfi for a 
quarter of a dollar per day. But these were 
happy days, for all we were but a poor boy. 



180 Trying to he Rich, 

They Avere happy, because we tried our best to 
make them so. 

His litbie brown linen pants were too short 
and too small for him, and his shirt, though 
clean, was coarse and serviceable. But the 
clothes are nothing. They wear out ! In think- 
ing of great men we never stop to wonder how 
they were dressed — we remember them by 
their acts. 

" Good-evening, my little man. Will you 
walk in ? " 

"Yes, sir, if you please. Is this Mr. 
Pomeroy, who writes every Saturday Night?" 

"Yes — come in and be seated. Take the 
easy-chair, for you look tired." 

"Thank you, sir, very much." 

"Not at all. What is your name, and what 
can I do for 3^ou ? " 

"My name is Henry Stephens, and I didn't 
know but you would talk with me a few mo- 
ments to-ni2;ht. I have all summer wanted to 



Trying to be Rich. 181 

come, ever since my mother died. And last 
night it seemed as if she came to me in my 
dreams and told me fo come to you to-night, 
and I could not help coming, sir." 

"You did ri2:ht. Now what can I do for 
you ? Perhaps nothing — but we will see — 
How old are you?" 

" Twelve years old, sir." 

" Where do you work, and what do you work 
at, Henry ? " 

" I pack up kindling for Mr. , ou 

Twenty-third street. 

" How much do you earn ? " 

"Four dollars a week, sir." 

" And board yourself? " 

"I board with my aunt for three dollars a 
week and washing." 

" Where is your father? " 

"He died five years ago." 

"In the a,rmy, or where, and how?" 

" He was hurt in a fijrht ou Baxter street, in 



182 Trying to he Rich. 

a place where men were talking politics, and 
be died." 

" When did your mother die ? " 

" Last winter, sir — the 14th of January." ^ 

" Was she jioor ? " 

"Yes, sir; she worked by the day in a laun- 
dry." 

" Have 3^ou much education ? " 

"Not much; I can read pretty good, and 
write and cipher some, aud know a little about 
geography." 

"That is good. What do you want me to 
do for you ? " 

" I want you to tell me how to get rich and 
be good." 

" That is easily done, Henry. Poor boys make 
the richest and the best men, as poor girls gen- 
erally make the best women. Most all the rich 
men and the great men in this country were 
once poor boys. They worked. And you can 
work. Learn a trade. Learn it well, then 



Trying to he Rich. 183 

stick to it like a man. And try to be the best 
workman of all. Do not fool away time, for 
time is money. To bnilcl much of a church 
takes much planning, and more work. If 
you sit by the roadside on a stone all day, you 
need not look for it high on the wall at night. 
And always be careful of yourself, your health 
and your reputation. Save a part of what you 
earn — if but a penny a day. Be neat and 
clean as you can. You need not be a slouch, 
if you are poor. And, Henry, always keep 
your temper if you possibly can, for good- 
natured men have the most friends, and get 
along the best. 

" Try to be able to take charge of the busi- 
ness you are in, and when you do, be careful 
to advance the interests of your employer. He 
will respect you then — advance your wages, 
and do better by you each year, till at last you 
will become a partner, or have enough money 



184 Tryinrj to 'be Rich. 

to start business for yourself. Work honestly. 
Have patience. 

"And, Henry, remember this. Money does 
not make us rich. The richest man of all rich 
men in the world is he who does the most 
good, and most loves the poor and the unfor- 
tunate." 

"My health is not very good, sir." 

" Then you must take the better care of it, 
or your dream of life will never be realized." 

" Sometimes I think it never Avill, and feel 
tired of trying." 

"We all feel just that way at times. But 
the best way is to get over it, and do the very 
best we can. And all of us can do more than 
we do, if we try right hard. We can try till 
we die." 

" I don't want to die ! " 

"Why?" 

"Because I want to live and have a home 
some day. And I am afraid to die ! " 



Trying to be Bich. ' 185 

''Afraid?'' 

"Yes, sir." 

" What an idea ! Were you afraid to come 
here to-niij^ht to see me?" 

"JVb, mV." 

"Why not?" 

" Because I read yomr book, and I knew you 
would not harm me. And my Sunday-school 
teacher said I could come to you, and you 
would talk with me." 

"That was right, Henry. You were not 
afraid to come here. And this is a finer 
place than your shop, with its saws, knives, 
and slivers. So our Home in the Land of 
the Leal, which is called Home or Heaven, 
is niillions of times more b((autiful than 
this. And all can ejiter who come the right 
way. And no one there will drive us out. 
Deatli is no more than opening the door 
through which you come from a dimly-lighted 
hall to a brilliantly-lighted parlor. Out there 



186 Trying to he Rich. 

it is dark. There are stairs to climb before 
3'oii reach here. And a door to open before 
you can enter. Are you sorry you came here, 
Henry ? " 

"No, sir — I am glad." 

"Well, death is no more than the swinsrino: 
of that door. It opens from darkness to light. 
And when we die we but just begin to live. 
It will take us a long time to know all there is 
of Heaven. But there is One there who knows 
and we can learn of Him, for, Henry, there is 
a God, who is that great loving Power so fpw 
understand aright. 

"As we are good, or strive to be. good here, 
and to do by others as we would have them do 
by us, so will we be the happier Over There, 
for in -the home of disembodied spirits there 
will be degrees of happiness as here — work to 
do as here — a greater life to live than here. 
And there we shall move with the multitude as 
here, but shall rest with those who think 



Trying to be Rich. 187 

liberally and in whose hearts the beautiful, God- 
spoken principles of loving forgiveness shall 
have taken root. 

"We never shall be worse off than here. 
But some will be happier there than here, for 
they will have more to their credit — will have 
higher responsibilities, they are being fitted for 
a grander work. The soul does not die, for it 
is of the vital principle of Life Eternal. Nor 
will it ever. roast in endless fire, as once men 
taught who groped blindly in bigotry and 
superstition. 

" There is nothing of death to fear. But for 
the pain of brief separation from those we love 
here, we could even now lean back in our chair, 
rest a hand on the desk, and sleep to awaken in 
a better place than this, as this is better than a 
dark, unfurnished hall. We would gladly die, 
this moment, except that our work is not yet 
finished, and we would" not leave our loved 
ones so lono: to the care of others. 



188 Trying to he Rich. 

"Henry, as a man looks over his workmen to 
see who of them are the most worthy ; who he 
will liave to do this and to do tliat, so does the 
Loving Power look us all over to see who He 
will make rulers over many things in the beau- 
tiful Land of the Leal. And if we be not ear- 
nest workers here, we shall deeply regret it 
Over There, where the growth of the soul is less 
rapid if we have not an experienced life on 
earth. 

"And so, my earnest young friend, be not 
afraid of death. Better be afraid of life ! 
Here we are making a record to be looked at 
There. We had better be afraid of 'ourselves. 
Remember that money does not make us rich, 
for There, dollars do not count. Thus we have 
told 3^ou how to be rich and good, as we try to 
be, and as we hope all the earnest boys and 
men of the land will be, with no regrets for mis- 
spent time Avhen shall come the good, the beau- 
tiful rest of Life's final ' Saturday Night.' " 




CHAPTER XVm. 



INDEED A GOLDEN REWAED. 




E did hope for a rest this Saturday 
Night, all alone, with no one to take 
our thoughts from the beautiful 
study of life, and visiting with the good angels 
who come at times trooping all around us, each 
one suggesting a good thought and all smiling a 
happy-hearted approval to reward us for honest 
laboring in the vineyard of life. 

Have you ever read of angels' visits ? Some 
people say they are few and far between. 
Not so, if we would have them frequent. We 
believe in the visits of angels. Not the 
looked-for embodiment with wings and white 

189 



190 Indeed a Golden Reward. 

raiment, which appear to wandering imagina- 
tions. But the good angels, whose home is 
space — whose resting-place is Over There — 
who live m the yellow sunlight of the Eternal, 
and whose mission is to welcome There the 
ones who lived liberal, noble lives here. 

Our good angels never yet have deserted 
us. Each year more come — none are missed. 
We know many of them. "We can see them as 
plainly as the tracing on the paper before ns. 
Sometimes a troop of them come to have silent 
talk with us, then away they all go to their 
missions. Some of them go on missions of 
their own, as beautiful birds Hy through the 
air — as the spirit — the thought, annihilates 
space. 

The pathway they go — the way they 
come — is not dark to us. It was once. But 
w^e have looked for light and looked and 
looked, till at last it has come to us. We 
would not stop looking till we saw, and under- 



Indeed a Golden Reward. .191 

stood. Every day these unseen visitors come 
to us. They are our friends. Sometimes one, 
sometimes more are with us. At times they 
leave us alone, and go away to call upon 
others. Sometimes we send them on errands 
for us, miles away — to whisper thoughts to 
absent friends.' And they come back to tell us 
what their hearts replied, and where they 
were, how looking, and how in health. So we 
are a thousand times a day here and there — 
with those who write us letters — with the 
poor who often think of us as we do of them 
— with the weary and the overworked. 

Sometimes all our good angels leave us for 
hours, to grope in the dark, as it were, and to 
feel sad, depressed, unnatural, as one who 
halts in a wilderness, with the night and the 
storm all about him, and he in distress. Then 
Ave make haste to call for help, and our spirit 
reaches forth a^d goes out for the golden shad- 
ows, which brings us light. 



192 Indeed a Golden Reward, 

And ,tliey come. One .whispers hope. 
Another tells us to be brave and trnthful, and 
all will be well. Another tells us that the gold- 
en shore is for our reaching, that we must not 
sit idle, but push on like a man. Another 
good angel comes and tells us what others have 
done — another one tells us who loves us and 
who is glad when we are in such heart- 
warmed company — other angels go with us to 
point the way, and show where we must walk 
and not fall ; and once more we are on the 
road. 

Sometimes, when our good thoughts or good 
angels come to us not, dark shadows come over 
us. Bad thoughts and desires enter our spirit 
temple. But light dispels darkness, and the good 
triumphs over the bad as we seek the light or 
remain content to gi'ope in darkness, and to 
sleep under this hedge or that bramble because 
others who do not, and perhaps do not care to 




"A vvell-dressed mao, more thau a dozen years our senior, entered. 
See page lit I. 



Indeed a Golden Reward. 193 

see as we see, are content to think there is but 
one path to the Eternal ! 

And that one over thorns, and coals, and 
poisonous points of granite — as if a Power 
that is Love Eternal wants agony instead of 
earnest manhood and good-will in the beautiful 
Laud of the Leal. 

We were hoping to-night that we might visit 
with our good angels, and tell them how they 
had helped us all the daj^s of the week, and ask 
them to leave with us each a good resolve for 
the week to come. Bat it was not to be." 

There was a pull at the door-bell down stairs. 
The kind janitor of the building who keeps the 
door securely tyled when comes nightfall, and 
we are alone, came and said a gentleman wished 
to see us on important business. 

"What is his name?" 

"He did not state, sir, but he said he wanted 
to see you a little while to-night," 
13 



194 Indeed a Golden Reward. 



" Show him up." 

And he came. A well-dressed man more 
than a dozen years our senior. His step was 
firm — his face clean and noble — his eye 
blight. He came forward, and reached out his 
hand — 

" Good evening, good friend." 

"Welcome, — will you rest in that easy- 
chair?" 

" Thank you, and excuse me for this inter- 
ruption. You do not remember me? I am 
glad of it." 

'^ We have met before. Your eyes are 
pictured on my memory, but where we have 
met I cannot tell." ^ 

He continued — 

"Do you remember seeing a poor drunken 
man in the depot at Cleveland in 1864 — a man 
who was kicked like a vagabond dog for steal- 
ing an apple ? " 

" Yes." 



Indeed a Golden Reward. 195 

" Do you remember following; that man to the 
corner of the depot, outside, by the track, and 
asking him why he took the apple ? " 

"Yes." 

" Do you remember that he told you he had 
eaten no food for two days — that he had been 
on a drunken spree — had no more money and 
not a friend to go to, and was starving? " 

"Yes." 

" Do you remember bringing a little pie and 
a sandwich, and of saying a few kind words to 
that man ? " 

"Yes." 

"Do you know me, now?" 

"Yes — I know you to be that man, for 
whom I was sorry." 

"Well, sir — I am that man. And to-night 
I come to pay you for that pie and that sand- 
wich. Will you accept this little gold dollar 
as an evidence of friendship and gratitude ? I 
ate the food you gave me — and ate no more 



196 . Indeed a Golden Reward. 

till 1- earned it. The taste of that food was in 
my mouth many hours, but it was not so sweet 
or so nourishing as the kind words you gave 
me, never forgotten." 

" I have forgotten them ! " 

"Well, I have not, and will tell you what 
you said, ' Take this lunch and a little courage 
— then take care of yourself and help me 
sometime.' " 

" That was not much to say." 

"It was a great deal to me. I looked at 
you as I ate, till you got on the cars, and then 
I walked away. Your words gave me pluck. 
The idea that I could ever help you seemed ri- 
diculous. Then I said, why not? I walked 
away from there — walked out, away out Eu- 
clid avenue, and found a chance to work five 
days, helping a man fix a barn. And I didn't 
drink any more. 

" Then I got work in a warehouse for a 
mouth. Then went to Idaho and made money. 



Indeed a Golden Reward. 197 

Two years since I saw you in Chicago, and re- 
membered your face. I followed you till I 
learned who you were. Now my business 
called me to New York, and I come to tell you 
that the poor, drunken vagabond to whom you 
gave a few kind words a few years since is now 
well off, as the world counts, and that I want 
you to take this little keepsake and w^ear it, or 
give it to some other poor creature." 

"I will accept it with pleasure. And keep 
it as long as I live, to remind me that a kind 
word costs nothing and ofteft does much good." 

"Yes, you gave me food, and courage, and 
something to think of. I said I would try to 
be 'kind to myself if a stranger could be kind to 
me." 

"And you have done well, have you? " 

" Yes, first-rate. I kept at work, and 
saved what I earned. Went West soon as I 
could, and kept going West. Made a little 
money at Cheyenne. Then I went to mining 



198 Indeed a Golden Reward. 

and knocking around in Idaho. Sometimes it 
was pretty blue, but I kept at it, and now I am 
all right. Some day, when you want a friend, 
call on me and I will repay you for your kind 
words, which will never be forgotten." 

He w'ent away, and we went to our work, 
and to the enjoyment of the reward which is 
ours this beautiful Saturday Night. 




CHAPTER XIX. 



MERELY OPENING A DOOR ! 




N a little church-yard out from the 
great city, near our olden home, a 
new-made grave marks a new comer 
to the city of the dead since last we sat to our 
Saturday Night writing, 

A full-length grave in a country church- 
yard ; just under the shadow of the steeple 
which rises above the maples — under the 
tiemor of the little bell up there — out from a 
close, narrow, cramped life into his allotment 
of hibor and reward in the broad lastiug Over 
the Elver. 

We knew him years ago. A l^ravc, fearless 

VJ'J 



200 Merely Opening a Door. 

youth. A noble man. There were more 
thorns than roses in the garden of his young 
life, but he worked well and bravely, heeding 
not the brambles, but gathering the roses, till 
he plucked many bouquets to gladden Jiearts 
and beautify homes. Narrower than the lonely 
chamber of silence in which the form in which 
he once lived now reposes were the ideas 
taught him in the years agone. But there was 
in his soul a desire for light and truth. And 
so, the growing wings of intellect beat against 
the prison-bars fastened across his mind's 
vision, till at last they broke down the dark 
barriers of ignorance ^ and out in the free air, 
he rode over the storms to survey the new rest 
and the new Home so beautifully called 
Heaven, 

One day, months ago, when we saw him by 
the hearth and fender, sitting beside^ and hold- 
ing on his arm and bosom his loved and beau- 
tiful darlhig, whose clear eye and gentle love 



Merely O^pening a Door. 201 

made bis life golden, like her hair. We 
almost envied him the quiet, real life he en- 
joyed in his little country home. It was so 
unlike ours — so widely different from the 
busy, tiresome, endless drudgery of our labor, 
that we would have given him all we had for 
the beautiful life he was living — for his sweet 
home-rest. 

"We talked long of our lives and what had 
come to us in the years agone. It was not 
long ago. We once expected to go first to the 
other life, for he had better health than we. 
He drew so dose to his heart the beautiful 
darling, all his own — he pressed at times such 
light yet lasting kisses upon her brow and lips 
as she rested there watching for the words that 
came, that we looked again and saw her as in a 
vision alone — as now. At last we said : — 

"You are the nearer home." 

" Why think so ? " 

"To-night we have seen our messengers < 



202 Merely Opening a Door. 

To us they say, ' Not yet ! ' all the while closer 
and still closer, locking and interlocking the 
souls of you two who are so good, kind, and 
true to each other. She will soon follow you 
to the Land of the Leal, where you shall in- 
deed be as one." 

Then her arms drew still closer about his 
neck, and he bent low to smooth the golden 
hair and to kiss away the tears from the eyes 
of her he loved. Ah, good friends — that 
simple home of a fellow-laborer was more of a 
palace than are many mansions. 

Then, when all was still a few moments — 
and we were looking out of a window watching 
the star we learned years ago to call our own, 
after she who rested there so sweetly on the' 
bosom of a true, earnest, loving, thoughtful 
husband, had turned her head so we could not 
see her eyes, he said : 

" Sometimes I think the day will not be so 
long, and I am ready to go — but who will 



Merely Oj^ening a Door. 203 

care for my Darling? This is all that holds 
me to life after the work I am to do is finished. 
Who will care for her as I do ? Who will hold 
her life as I do ? Who will protect the one for 
whom I will be waiting, and whose life must 
be with mine to complete the life of both, 
Over There ? 

"You will protect her?" 

Then I am ready to go at any time. This 
was all that held me here. To be sure, it is 
beautiful here — Ave all wish to stay, but it will 
be more beautiful There, and to our new home 
I am ready to go, and wait for her. Some- 
times — yes, often, when from home — I feel a 
momentary dread of death as I think of old les- 
sons, but the cloud soon floats away, and I see 
the sky beyond, as now. Tell me of it, and 
we will both listen." 

There' is so much to tell ! You will know it 
all before we can tell you. Clouds come, and 
the eye rests thereon. If you allow 3'our eye 



204 Merely Opening a Door, 

to follow and rest on clouds, it will lead your 
gaze trackless journeys — but if you look only 
for the Light in the East — for the sky beyond 
— the cloud will pass away, and you will look 
upon a reality. So with our lives — if we look 
steadfastly, and thus do strive, a reward will 
be ours all in good time. 

Death is nothing to be dreaded — no more 
than the "good-night" parting at the door 
when we leave a crowded party for the beauty 
of our home, just a little way through the dark- 
ness. We do not fear to sleep, for we shall 
waken again. And our sleep, resting, and awak- 
ing is much as we make it. We can so live and 
partake during the day that we will have troub- 
lous dreams at night and a fever-shaken brain on 
the morrow. Or we can so live to-day that our 
rest to-night will be sweet, and to-morrow we 
will waken refreshed, ready for the work or 
the journey, as duty calls or inclination leads 
the way. 



Merely Opening a Door. 205 

"Why not go now?" you may ask. Why 
does not fruit fall before it is ripe and yet be 
good ? Why does not the babe become a man 
at once ? Why come bud and flower — seed- 
time and harvest — the ripening of manhood 
as of grain? It is not all for us alone ! .This 
life nor the next are for us in selfishness ! 

There is work to do there as here, and we 
shall be called to that work when wanted, and 
they who begin at the eleventh hour will be 
rewarded accordingly. We shall be changed 
from darkness to light, as our bodies are 
changed from corruption to earth when we are 
through with them, as tenements no longer fit 
to live in. 

There is no more danger in the night than in 
the day — the darkness than the light — if we 
know how to walk and go only in the true light. 
It is less work to drop a heavy load than to 
carry it — so it is easier to part with a life well 
spent than to guard it carefully over dangerous 



206 Merely Opening a Door. 

roads. " Come to me all ye who are weary 
and heavy ladeu, and I will give you rest." 

How beautiful that in the Great Powerful ! 
All who are laden ! We are to have rest — not 
agony. And when the time comes, we will go 
as oui" friend went. Brave, hopeful, confiding. 
If we take care of ourselves liere, He will take 
care of us There ! 

There are many ways to reach the great work 
of the future. We may dread to tell those who 
cannot go just now, " good-bye." It may seem 
impossible that the walls of the house should 
part ; but when comes the time to go, a door 
will open — we can pass out and know that we 
are still safe. Then we will take care not to 
loiter by the way — and He will care for us. 

Thus went our friend — and there shall we 
find him. And the dear one he left will be 
cared for till she, too, will be ready to see the 
door open, and can step forth to light and life 
eternal, happy in his love there as she Avas 



Merely Opening a Door. 207 

here, if she will be pure and deserving, as all 
■who are of good intent will be or strive to be. 
But a little while longer, then we, too, can go. 
It will be hard to part with those we love, but 
thank God there will be others there to wel- 
come us as we will be ready to welcome the 
one who is our life and solace here, while 
workiusr to earn the reward which comes with 
the Saturday Night. 





CHAPTER XX. 



NEW TEAR PRESENTS FOR LITTLE ONES. 




HIS Saturday Night we are weary. 
And who that works is not? Day 
after day it is work, work, from 



morn till midnight, 
fluence for good 



Wo work to gain an in- 



To see how far ahead we 
can get from the ignorance common to us all at 
birth — to the knowledoje of the Eternal. To 
see how we can make others better and happier 
— to earn comforts for those we love. 

If we were Santa Claus ! 

If we could make su,ch presents as we would 



like to this night ! 



208 



New Year Presents for Little Ones. 209 

We would give to Christians more liberty, 
and thus make all men Christians. 

We would give success in life to every 
earnest worker. 

We would give pity to every unfortunate, no 
matter who. 

We would give to all charity, even as Christ 
Jesus gave charity. 

We would give to every person in the world 
a happy home, and a heart filled only with 
love. 

We would give to all men, virtuous, loving, 
happy wives ; and to all women, true, fearless, 
loving, careful, considerate, temperate hus- 
bands. 

We would give all the workingmen of our 
country happy homes and encouragement. 
We would like to give presents to all the chil- 
dren who read this paper, or who hear it read 
to them. But this we can not do. So we 
14 



210 JSTew Year Presents for Little Ones. 

write this article for their benefit, and talk to 
the fathers and mothers. 

The new year has begun. We hope it will 
be happier and more filled with blessings than 
the last. We hope all the little children 
gathered by the fireside in city or country 
homes may live till comes the next New Year, 
and be very happy all the time ! Will fathers 
and mothers try to make them so ? 

Not so much by giving presents of toys as 
of kind words. Not by expenditures they are 
not able to make, but by showing the little 
ones the way to be good and happy. 

Who of the dear, good mothers who so love 
their little ones will agree not to speak cross 5 
not to punish when in anger; not to get mad 
and provoked at little things, which children 
always do because tlicy are children, and do 
not know better till tliey have been taught? 
Who, of the kind,_ loving mothers who read 
this, will resolve to be more and more careful 



New Year Presents for Little Ones. 211 

of the hearts of their little ones each day, and 
to keep tiiem from the storms of words, which 
darken the sky of young life and so cut in 
upon the harmony necessary to perfect growth ? 

You can not grow a beautiful plant to beauty 
and perfect blossoming by showering it with 
hot and cold water — by throwing sticks and 
stones upon it ; by pinching, twisting it this 
way and that ; by pulling it up in the morn, to 
set it back in the earth at night. 

No more can you rear a child to love, and 
goodness, and purity, and harmony of charac- 
ter, by being first cross, then kind, then ugly, 
then loving, then angered, then in coaxing 
mood till the young soul be driven from point 
to point, gaining never a rest or foothold on 
the beautiful lawn of a loving, harmonious 
life. 

And who of the fathers who read this will 
be good fathers, and set good examples for 
their little ones ? We wish every father in the 



212 New Year Presents for Little Ones. 

land would leave off his rough, vulgar, profane 
talk. His little ones would love him so much 
the better and would grow to be better and 
purer. Children often think more of their 
mothers than they do of their fathers. 

Do you know why this is so ? We will tell 
you. The young mind is pure. It takes to 
purity naturally. The mother utters fewer hard, 
coarse, rough words than does the father. The 
child, budding, growing to manhood, clings to 
the smoothest, sweetest, most even life, and 
when come from the father's lips words antag- 
onistic to the pure young soul, it turns to the 
mother. And if she be cross, and rough, and 
cold, and uneven, the little one turns to the 
world, too often to be lost before it can realize 
that there is another Power to turn to for help 
and protection. 

You gave your little ones holiday presents. 
Will you see how near you can make of the year 
one beautiful heart-holiday for them, and then 



New Year Presents for Little Ones. 213 

they will love you so much better, and when 
comes the time, stand between you and life's 
storms, no matter what they be. 

We know men and women who^ have cows, 
horses, sheep, and pigs more cared for than 
their little children. Perhaps it is because a 
horse or cow will bring money. But all the 
money in the world is not such sunshine to the 
heart as is that earnest love, without which life 
is but a succession of cross purposes. Children 
need this love. The father who spends his days 
in idleness, his nights in dissipation ; who lets 
the foliage of language full from his lips torn, 
stained, broken, worm-eaten and full of poison, 
is weaving thereby a carpet for the young soul 
he should teach, so full of shame, pain, sorrow, 
and blight, that no outer dress fashion may dic- 
tate can make atonement for. 

Kind words are diamonds, pure and of untold 
value. We know a. father who is very rich ; he 
has five children. He buys them presents, and 



214 New Year Presents for Little Ones. 

is proud to see them well-dressed and well- 
behaved. But he never joms them in plays, 
romps, and games — it is undignified ! When 
" father " spgaks, it is like the tolling of a bell. 
He commands — they obey, as do dogs ! He 
is making men of his boys , so he says ! 

We know another man, with three children. 
He is not a rich man ; only a worker. But he 
is kind, and full of happy thoughts. He is 
loved, respected — almost worshipped by his 
home ones. He laughs with them, romps with 
them, and helps them to make little toys — 
teaching his children all the while to rely on 
^/iemseZves for something to help interest, amuse, 
and instruct. He spends his evenings at home. 
He wears clean clothes — puts his dirty apron 
and jacket away in the shop, and takes pain.s to 
go home with clean hands and face, and a glad 
look. He reads to his little ones evenings. 
He tells them stories — incidents of his life and 
observation — till the little ones think, in all 



I^eio Year Presents for Little Ones. 215 

the country there is not another one so good, 
so kind, so loving, and so full of knowledge as 
is their father. 

His home life is very beautiful and harmoni- 
ous. He began right, years ago. He never 
spends a night or day in dissipation. He lives 
for those he loves, and who love him, and is 
walking as straight to everlasting happiness as 
ever a bullet flew to pierce the centre of a 
target ! 

One day we heard that his children were 
better than other children. That they were 
better behaved, and always looked so smart, 
attractive, and intelligent — when they have 
help to develop rather than an existence of un- 
certainty between fires and cross-fires. If all 
parents were good to their little ones, or half 
so careful of them as of their furniture — when 
a soul is easier marked than a piece of wood — 
the world would be better, and m a short time 
all would be as brothers, eager runners in the 



216 New Year Presents for Little Ones. 

race for happiness and honorable reward ; not 
only here, but beyond the resting-place, and the 
schools we shall find for parents and children 
in that land whose opening gate is life's final 
Saturday Night. 




CHAPTER XXI. 



ABOUT A BRIGHT-EYED BABY. 




HE street cars were crowded to-night 
as we rode home from down town — 
from the office and the types, and 
the presses, and the whh' of machinery. The 
workmen were nearly ready to leave, for the 
last edition for the day and the week was on 
the press — the army of newsboys were on the 
streets with the paper just from the press, 
gathering their harvest of pennies from the 
eager buyers. Said a fine-looking gentleman 
beside us in the car : 

" Saturday night again ! Are you not glad ? 
I am." 

217 



218 About a Bright- Eyed Baby. 

" Yes, we are glad — not so much for oiir- 
self, for our work is not finished." 

Then the car stopped — a woman with a 
sweet, clean, loving face came in. She had in 
her arms a pretty baby, a few months old. 
The gentleman with whom we had been con- 
versing, gave her his seat, as he was soon to 
leave the car. She was a woman about 
twenty-four years of age. Evidently the wife 
of a workingman. 

And the baby. Such a- sweet, clean, bright- 
looking little one ! Its tinted cheeks, bright 
eyes, clean lips and face — its nice little white 
cap of Berlin wool, with blue ribbons — its 
little, white cloak, with neat blue trimmings ; 
who could help looking at the little innocent? 

So we looked. And smiled — and winked. 
And with our eyes talked to the little one. 
And it laughed and jumped, and seemed so 
happy. And we had a nice chat with the 
baby. And the passengers smiled at its happi- 



About a Bright-Eyed Baby. 219 

ness. A few crusty people in the car sat cold, 
stiff, dignified, " manly ! " looking as though it 
Were beneath the dignity of manhood to add to 
the happiness of innocence, or to lighten a 
heart even for a moment. 

But what of them or their stiffness? They 
were babies once — so were we all. We 
talked with the little darling, and it kept laugh- 
ins: in fflee. And we talked with its mother. 

"Is this your little one, madam? " 
■ "Yes, sir." 

" How old is it ? " 

"Ten mouths." 

" A beautiful child ! " 

"We think so at home." 

"And so bright — sweet, clean, and good- 
natured.'* 

"You think just as we do." 

"Always so good-natured?" 

" Yes, sir." 

" You and its papa ought to be very happy.** 



220 About a Bright-Eyed Baby. 

" Oh, we are, sir." 

" Does he ever get drunk and abuse you ? " 

"My husband abuse me? No, sir. Ho 
never was drunk, that I know — he never even 
spoke a cross word to me — not one that was 
ugly." 

"Nor you to him?"' 

"No, sir — I love him too well." 

"You must be very happy then. And with 
such a nice baby." 

"We are, sir — we always were." 

" What does he do nights and days ? " 

" He is a foreman in a piano shop — he 
works there days, and nights he reads to me — 
plays with the baby — plays backgammon with 
me, and rests." 

"Well — God love you. You, and him, and 
baby. Tell him another workingman said so. 
— Good-night." 

" Sixteenth street ! " 



About a Bright-Eyed Baby. 221 

So said the car-couductor, with a nod to us, 
and we, too, were home or near there. 

And all the evening we have been playing 
with that little baby. We see it now all over 
the paper before us. 

Perhaps it was not dignified to play with a 
bundle of innocence on the cars! Well, who 
cares ? Baby and we liked it — and its mother 
was not displeased, and many an eye looked 
just as we felt. 

" How could we talk to its mother and not 
know her — without an introduction?" 

We knew her ! Her face told us who she 
was — a good wife and mother. Her baby in- 
troduced us — a higher power, that of Inno- 
cence, introduced us. We meant no wrong, 
no impertinence. And think you a Avoman 
does not know when a man means well — when 
he is a gentleman ? She read us aright. Would 
to God all people would do so. Then we could 
do more good. 



f 22 About a Bright-Eyed Baby. 

And so to-night we thought we would write 
of the baby. God love the little innocent — 
all the little ones who have good mothers and 
good fathers. And all who have not good 
parents to love them, and to care for them. 
And all the little foundlings and orphans who 
are without love, and who must walk for years 
under trees that have neither flowers nor fruit. 

We have been thinking of the dear little 
babies all over the land, and of the little ones 
who are sick and dying as we write this — of 
the little pets Avho have gone before us to their 
rest, escaping the heat of the day, the torture 
of heart, the weary struggle and net-work of 
temptations about us who are growing old ! 

We wish all the little babies were as clean, 
as happy, as well cared for as the one we saw 
to-night. We wish all of them had good 
mothers and fathers, who never spoke cross 
words to deaden hearts and love for each other, 
or to make the little one wonder, as it growg 



About a Bright-Eyed Bahy. 223 

up, why people who love each other so often 
talk cross, quarrel, scold, and set for the little 
watcher bad examples. Little pitchers have 
big ears ; young eyes see — and young memo- 
ries are the best ! 

And we have been thinking of mothers who 
care more for dress, gossip, scandal, ease, 
novel-reading, and street show than for little 
babies. Of mothers who are in good health, 
but too fashionable to take care of their own 
children. Of mothers who are dissipated and 
filling their blood with poison to give as 
legacies of disease to other little babies, which 
to them in time may come if the laws of God 
and life be observed. Of the women who have 
nice babies, and love them, O ! so dearly, just 
as we pray their little one may ever love them. 
Of the poor women who drag their love, their 
life, their bodies out of shape and iuto the grave 
bearing babies only to please a lazy, selfish 
husband, who devotes his energies to raising 



224 About a Bright-Eyed Baby. 

children to support him in his declining years, 
as one would buy a horse to do his work. 

And we have been thinking of the poor 
women who love their babies, but who cannot 
dress them even decently ; who have no loving 
husbands to care for them, and who, with 
heavy hearts, sigh, and wish, and wonder if 
their children ever will look nice and be of use 
in life. And we have been lookins; back over 
the life of the mother we talked Avith on the 
cars. 

— A happy girl. Married to an honest- 
hearted man. Not a scion of snobbish aristoc- 
racy, living on the labor of others, but a young, 
working man. Joined together by God, in 
love and devotion. Their lives in unison. 
And thus they begat a child. No fear, sorrow, 
remorse, terror, dread, nervousness and doubt 
of him, his love, devotion, virtue, honesty or 
ability to care for her and theirs — no cross, 
cold, unkind, heart-cutting words to affect the 



About a Bright-Eyed Baby. 225 

unborn as nature molds natures ! No petulant, 
uncaring clays of neglect and abuse. And so 
they lived. And so baby came. And so it is 
good-natured, bright, happy — and so it will 
make others — for the line of God-given love 
loses not by the wayside, but extends from 
conception to dissolution, and even into the 
Land of the Leal, as thread left by the shuttle, 
whose hither and yon weaves the fabric to pat- 
. terns as we direct ! A happy woman ! A 
happy wife ! A happy mother. A kind hus- 
band. A noble man. A common laborer ! 
One of God's monarchs, who will reign in the 
hereafter, and help by their deeds here and 
work there Him who was and is the greatest 
laborer of all. 

A brave, true, home-loving man. He 
spends not in dissipation. He romps with his 
baby. He reads to his wife. He enjoj^s home 
games. He is not ashamed to love and to be 
loved. He is fairly worshipped by her who 



226 About a Briglit-Eyed Bahy. 

cares for the baby and for him as he cares for 
them. He dare be a man. He dare save his 
earnings, his honor — his manhood — his life! 
God love him, and all such — yes, God love all 
Tvho do not love their home ones — who do not 
love themselves, but who throw their lives 
away — their powers to do good forgetting, 
and who live to no purpose except to labor to 
enrich the dealers in dissipation, or the slave- 
hold insr aristocrat. 

And we have been thinking how a woman 
will and does love such a man — one who loves 
her, her home, her little ones. How proud 
she is of him. How strong in his love. How 
protecting in her love. How sweet her life is 
to him. And this is life — as God wished and 
intended we should enjoy — as all would, but 
for their dissipation and weakness. 

Perhaps some of those who read this are too 
dignified to 'play with babies ! Too proud to 
unbend — too cowardly to follow their better 



About a Bright-Eyed Baby. 



227 



natures. If so, we pity them. May God give 
them kinder hearts, but not take from them 
their babies — their darlings — before comes 
to them another and a better Saturday Night. 





CHAPTER XXII. 

THINKING OF THE PAST AND THE FUTURE. 

[he pain has passed away. With the 
week just gone, it rolled silently 
down the depths of the past, leaving 
us one Saturday Night nearer the golden future, 
and the reward we are more than confident it 
will bring. And now that the week has gone, 
taken with it the thousand cares it brousrht, we 
are glad, and all the more ready for another 
seven days' battle with life, and those troubles 
which with singular energy so steadily crowd 
to fill the path before us. But troubles will 
come — as we who would conquer must trample 
them down and press on — and on, and still 

228 



The Past and the Future. 229 

on. For only those who strive will reach the 
goal. 

And now that the most blessed of the nights 
named is with us, let us rest. Are you weary? 
Then sit in your room, or w?th the one or ones 
so dear to you, and living every minute in your 
heart, and think a little to-night. 

We have been thinking and thinking a fall 
hour. 

" And what of? " you may ask. We will tell 
you. Perhaps you will laugh at us, and say we 
are not manly. But we care not for that. The 
record of our life here goes before us to Over 
There, and it matters not, when we go for such 
reward as may be ours, what any one here may 
or may not think "of us. The record is perfected 
There before the act be finished Here. 

We have been down the well of time. Into 
vapory memory. Walking again the life road 



230 The Past and the Future. 

we for years have been stepping over. We 
have called up all the childish faces we knew in 
the years agone. Have visited the old spots 
and haunts where as a boy we rested, rambled, 
and built air-castles. We have been in mem- 
ory, with our school companions — with our 
playmates. With the friends of our youth, and 
looking over the acts, good, bad and indifferent, 
which fill the pages of our past — which have 
made so much of the volume which will be fin- 
ished forever when shall come some Saturday 
Night. 

We have seen where we made missteps, and 
where we stepped by or over thousands of 
temptations. We have seen where we would 
have done differently here, or there, if it were 
ours to walk again the cruel, tortuous, rugged, 
dangerous, torturing road, over which so -far we 
have safely journeyed. We have looked back 
at little chances to have done good, which we 



The Past and the Future. 231 

neglected from carelessness, and have made 
good resolves for the future. 

And we have looked at the lives of our com- 
panions, or many of them. We have followed 
them as, perhaps, they in thought sometimes 
follow us. Some of them sleep — no ! they do 
not sleep ! Some of them, when came the time, 
closed their eyes and brought their lives to a 
icliujjer here, to see and to speak aloud Over 
There. We have walked to-night down the 
aisles of memory by many a grave and recollec- 
tion, as one day, perhaps, some one or ones 
will pass by ours. 

Some of our early companions live — some do 
not. At least, not here ! Some of them went 
Over the River, loved and happy. Some of 
them fell by the wayside, and went out with 
that tide which rolls to restle^ness. Some 
have married, and many have mourned. A 
few — a very few of all the ones we knew are 
happy, while many are not. But of them all, 



232 The Past and the Future. 

not o?ie so happy as we are. At least we would 
not give our happiness for theirs ; our full faith 
for their doubts — our earnest work for their 
hours of play. 

Many who were our friends then are our 
friends now, and God knows they are dear to 
us. And some there are who a few years since 
would not speak to a child of poverty, who now 
do not see fit to remember that once we were 
too far beneath them in the scale of wealth to 
be noticed. As if money made the man, or 
wealth made us noble ! 

At times we have felt envious. And who of 
us all have not ? But now we envy no person 
in all the world. Some we know are richer, 
but we would not give our friends for theirs — 
our heart-rest for theirs — our happiness for 
theirs. Som^ there are who have made for- 
tunes — but hoarded gold rests on the cofiiu-lid 
too heavy for the soul to rise perfect to that 
Power to which it belongs. 



The Past and the Faiure. 233 

We all at times look back and feel envious 
of the success of others. But when we have 
done our best, we have done all they have. If 
we have not, the fault is with us. And while 
many have done better, how many of our old 
friends <ind playmates have done worse ? Who 
of them have been happier and more respected ? 
Are not most of' us better off than many, and 
many who started life with us ? 

Years ago we were very poor. INIoney we had 
none. Friends were not so plenty as now, for 
we had not by long and honest endeavor won 
them, or tried to, by so living as to deserve 
confidence. But we always hoped for the best. 
We were willing to work, and always Avilling 
to Avait. And to the one who is willing to Avait 
the morn, the night is always the shortest. 
Life Avith us has been a success. More so than 
to many others. We have health. We have 
6tren£:th. We have a willingness to work. 
We have a constitution carefully guarded to 



234 The Past and the Future. 

middle life, unbroken and unweakened by dis- 
sipation, other than follows overwork. We 
can see already good fruits on trees we have 
planted. By labor we have turned our muscle 
into support, and intellect to at least reason- 
able use. 

Before us on the desk is q, watch - marking 
almost the midnight hour. A little thing of 
itself, but we earned it. On our finger is a 
ring bearing Masonic emblems. We earned 
that also. And the desk on which we write — 
the pen in our hand — the beautiful pictures on 
the wall — the piano standing there to give out 
at times the music which so rests us — the car- 
pets on the floors — the vases, statuettes, and 
ornaments of the room all about us, are noth- 
ing of themselves, but we earned them. They" 
surround us with encouraging presence, telling 
us to go on. We see by this presence that we 
have lived to a purpose. That we have beau- 
tified our place of labor until people say it is a 
parlor. We see that we have given employ- 



The Past and the Future. 235 

ment to artists, artisans, mechanics, and 
genius. And thus we have helped others in 
turn to beautify their homes. 

So we live, day after day, in the midst of 
works of our own creation. We misrht have 
spent more time idly, but our health would not 
have been better. . We might have spent what 
we earned in dissipation from the first, but are 
not these articles of beauty more a source of 
happiness and of gratification to friends ; more 
a good example and incentive to poor boys and 
deserving men everywhere, than a form bent, a 
body ruined, a face marked by dissipation? 

As we see what we have accomplished, we 
feel strousjcr for further efibrts. And all the 
more so, for a bright face haunts us still. A 
kind and loving heart bids us rest from labor 
in its gentle sunshine ; kind words come to us, 
and eyes which talk volumes of God's language, 
speak to us so often. And so, in all the world 
is there no peace like the one we have earned. 



236 The Past and the Future. 

No friends like ours ; that is, none so good, so 
true, so kind, so earnest, so confiding. We 
have something to live for. As all who read this 
have. What we have done, others may.. 

Other men can be kind and they will be. 
Other men can earn beautiful homes, and can 
make their workshops attractive. And they 
will. Other men can have money for books, 
pictures, etc., and enjoy the present — or they 
can live aimless lives, and sleep in the bitter 
dregs of a misspent existence. 

We would not write this now, but we love 
the boys and the workingmen of the land, who 
deserve homes of their own, and hearts of 
their choosing, and love to protect them. We 
love the brave, earnest poor boys of our co^in- 
try, and so sit to-night to tell them that by 
work and a care for their manhood they can be 
rich and happy. Not that wealth is required 
to make us happy, but to enable us to make 
others so, and thus add to our own. 



Tho Fasl and the Future. 237 

We love the earnest men of toil who dare be 
men — who dare strive for usefuhiess — who 
dare make their homes attractive, and who dare 
live for their loved ones. And so, with a 
heart reaching far out to the little homes of 
the land, do we love to sit and ^vrite, as if we 
were talking by the hearthstone and fender ; to 
talk socially and in quiet kindness to our 
friends, and to bid them and their good wives 
and happy little ones God-speed — to wish for 
them all a happy life and beautiful home, not 
only here, but in that glorious Land of the 
Leal, which all of us are nearer by auo.th.er 
Saturday Night. 




CHAPTER XXin., 



NOT SO LONELY AFTER ALL ! 




UST as our hopes come and go- are 
the weeks lifted into the invisible, as 
in time all of us who read and who 
write — who love or who hate — who toil or 
idle, will be. And how short each of these 
weeks is as we look back from this to last Sat- 
urday Night. And yet the past week has been 
a long one, for since last we sat by our desk to 
bid the week "good-by," and watch its fading 
memories floating Eternal-ward, a loved friend 
has gone home to await our coming in the 
beautiful land where all words are kind and all 



shadows golden. 



238 



Mt so Lonely After All. 239 

And so they go. Why can not we who are 
tired, weary, heart-sore, and overworked go at 
once, and not wait till the sun goes down and 
every minute of the day worked out? To- 
night we feel sad. The air seems filled with 
strange, plaintive whisperings, as if friends of 
the invisible were mourning at our tardiness 
and blaming us for not being with them before 
our time — before our allotted work be fin- 
ished. They seem to tell us that loved ones 
over there are each day coming from beautiful 
groves and flower-lined walks to the shore of 
the sea which rolls from time to eternity, but 
never this way, to see if we are not yet 
arrived. As our loved ones over there are 
waiting and looking for all of us who are 
good, and true, and kind, and loving. 

To-night we are all alone — save the golden 
presence we often feel, and so often see, when 
with it we wander leagues away, over plain, 
hill, valley, mountain, and sea — over the 



240, Not so Lonely After All. 

wondrous sea of Death, but ever returning till 
we cross it aright, as others over there have 
crossed. But the sunshine from over there 
rests in our heart continually, and it gives such 
light and peace to the mind. We have no 
more fear of the kiss of death than of the 
cooling ice which is so grateful to fevered lips. 

Back to our room which in spirit we left an 
hour ago. And we have been, O ! so many 
leagues away. We are lonely. Did you ever 
feel as if the very air was thick — as if no one 
could penetrate it to be with you ? Did you 
ever sit and long for the presence of some one 
till it seemed as if the soul would fly? Did 
you ever sit and think of some loved one till 
the heart would be stilled as if pulseless 
silence forever, and it seemed that you must 
cry out in agony ? 

To-night we have felt' so. It seems as if 
there, were nothing but duty^ in the world — 



N'ot so Lonely After All. 241 

as if there were no end to this wearying labor. 
O ! if some one who is absent could be with 
us. If some one whose smile is our life- — 
— whose heart is our resting-place — whose 
lips are so sweet — whose hand is so soft — 
whose life has so run and woven itself in with 
ours — whose eyes seem to us like avenues to 
the Eternal, could be with us as of j^ore. If 
we could hear that loved voice — could hold 
to our heart the one we know beats more for 
us than for any other person of all God's mil- 
lions — could sit palm in palm resting — could 
rest our aching head and wildlj^-throbbing tem- 
ples on that bosom where it w^ould be so wel- 
come — could rest, and feel all the while that 
none were so truly happy as we who would 
thus add to our love and happiness, how light 
would be our heart and sweet our rest this 
dyiiig hour of the week. 

All the week have we labored — perhaps 
having done some little good. We have tried 

16 



242 Not so Lonely/ After AIL 

to be good. Last Saturday Night, wearied, 
overworked, nervous, aud disappointed, we 
forgot ourself just once and uttered a cross 
word. God knows we have suffered for it. 
The memory of it comes with its blackness, to 
chide and cast a gloom over the heart. We 
should not so speak to-night. We have not so 
spoken since. And God being our help, we 
shall no more speak so, for cross words are 
unmanly, and cut like red-hot blade of steel to 
the very quick of the soul. There are no 
cross words spoken Over There ; and oft while 
others sleep we go there to listen, to look upon 
the face of the one who is our guide and 
strength. 

If we cannot conquer ourselves we cannot 
conquer death ! If we cannot teach our 
tongues to speak kindly to others, how will 
others speak kindly to us ? And how weak we 
all are ! Who of us can walk alone ? And 
who so brave of heart as the one who is loved, 



Not so Lonely After All. 243 

for this is God's armor ! How one can toil — 
can wait — can sufler — can battle on manfully 

— can struggle as did Jacob with the Angel 
from Heaven — can endure — can resist temp- 
tation — can defy danger and trouble, if there 
be to protect and encourage, the true, earnest, 
living love of a kindred heart, all, all, all 
your own. If we are but loved, the hours 
seem like minutes — the labors of the day but 
pastime — the trials of life but little patches 
of shade over the sunlit sward. God bless all 
who love each other — no matter who they be 

— who they love — mated or unmated, for our 
mating here is no more our mating over there, 
except hearts grow together, than the darkness 
of earth is the sunlight of Heaven. There are 
no chains over there — no longing for some- 
thino; not to be had — no crushing under the 
ponderous wheels of mistaken duty, as heathen 
are crushed under the car which bears simply 



244 Not so Lonely After All. 

the idol of their own creation, as their "re- 
li2:ion " dictates. 

But we shall be with the loved and absent be- 
fore long. The days will fly quickly, for they 
shorten as we near the grave ! And then we 
shall rest. Then we shall look deep into those 
eyes. And sink like a child to sweetest 
slumber into the heart we know, for God has 
told us, beats for no other one on earth. And 
we shall smooth back the hair from that brow 
— shall hold to our heart the oue that throbs 
responsive, and then will come the glorious 
sunshine which leads us ever on through the 
dark and weary hours of those who are lonely. 

All there is of life is love. Ambition is but 
crumbling straw to be burned by time. It 
dies upon the lips, but enters not the heart to 
lighten and make truly glorious. All these 
conquests — these adding of acres — this piling 
up of wealth for others, is nothing to the grow- 
ing of that love for others which will carry us 



Not so Lonely After All. 245 

safely over the wondrous sea where those 
whose hearts are heavy with lust, passion base 
and selfish, desires only fur personal gratifica- 
tion, will sink to rise no more. 

Then let those love who will — who can — for 
thus are we joining hearts for the Eternal, 
where it will not be good for man to live alone. 
And rest those who love — closer bind them 
together, counting as lost hours those which 
keep united souls apart, as the light is kept 
from fruit and flower to wither and fade and 
fall before its time ! 

And though we ^q lonely to-night, sitting 
with the dying week, we are not lonely, for a 
gentle presence is with us. We shall meet and 
be where the heart is, all in good time. And 
then the eyes will be brighter — the lips 
sweeter — the brow smoother and more lovable 
— the heart happier — the golden promise 
more than realized as eyes talk, and touch of 



246 Not so Lonely After All. 

love thrills with wild, strange, ecstatic emo- 
tion. 

And we are satisfied with our little loneli- 
ness, soon to be over with, as we think of the 
weary, heart- wrecked, wretched ones, who 
have no loves to make them happy. Of the 
poor little children who are orphaned, or 
whose parents do not " love them. Of the 
lonely wanderers who have no homes, but who 
are the driftwood — the flotsom on the sea of 
life — with hearts water-logged and sinking 
into the bad from lack of buoyant love. 

And we are not lonely for all — when soon 
we shall meet with our loved and absent. 
These days will soon pass away. These weeks 
will soon be gone. We shall be the nearer the 
shore and the starting on our voyage. We are 
not so lonely as the men who are unloved — 
who are lost to themselves, to others, to life — 
to ambition — to love — to happiness from that 
dissipation they would be hajipier to walk away 



j^ot so Lonely After All. 247 

from. We are not so lonely as many a man 
we know of who works, and works, and works, 
but who has no loving heart to welcome him 
home — no neat, clean, sweet, loving, true, 
kind-hearted, caressing, affectionate, soul- 
cheering loved one to watch and Avelcome his 
coming. 

We are not so lonely as many a poor woman 
Avho was loved, and caressed, and given 
presents, and led along by promises of love, 
constancy, and devotion forever, years ago, 
when the one who is now a cold, selfish, reck- 
less, passion-gratifying husband was her lover. 
We are not so lonely as many a poor woman 
Avho is living in a cold home, with nothing but 
rags, or labor, or sorrow, or child-bearing, or 
sickness, or her heart-crushing " duty " to live 
for, simply because society demands sacrifices 
God does not ! We are not so lonely to-night 
as many a woman whose loving heart has been 
wrecked — whose furrow-marked face tells us 



248 Wot so Lonely After Ml. 

exactly her grief, as we see where the Hues of 
care are planted — whose soul fairly shows the 
coming of the husband whose touch is agony, 
whose kiss is sickening, whose passion is her 
pain, Avhose ecstasy is her misery, whose pres- 
ence her despair, whose word her law, and 
whose love is but selfish tyranny ! God pity 
these poor lonely ones — the heart-wrecked 
mudsills on which society rests its barn-like 
prison-house of Christian duty — as if it W' ere 
the duty of a Christian people to torture the 
soul and crush the heart as heathen do their 
bodies, or to palsy their affections as .heathen 
do their arms and bodies in doing penance. 

And so, thinking of these soul-sorrowing 
ones the world dares not speak kindly to for 
fear of offending tyrants, we are not lonely. 
Very soon we will be with the loved and the 
absent, and then we Avill rest, and be loved, 
a;S we shall rest, shall love, and be loved beyond 
the quiet hours of our final Saturday Night. 




CHAPTER XXIV. 



PUT THEM AWAY. 




ICK ! Tick ! Tick ! 

How the ticking of the clock, unno- 
ticed at other times, strikes like ham- 
mer of iron to the heart as we sit here to-night, 
in a room yesterday occupied by a living, loving 
friend ! To-night she is at rest in the Golden 
Land. And we mourn — not so much that she 
is out of pain and bodily agony, but that no 
more on earth can we hear her voice — listen to 
her encouraging words, or look into her eyes that 
so eloquently mirrored the purity of her soul. 
To-morrow, so soon to be here, will be the 

Sabbath. Day of rest — Day of sadness! for 

2-ia 



250 Put Them Away. 

a dear, good friend has already iu this life won 
her crown and place with those who have passed 
on, while we are left to win ours, but with no 
more of that help which came from her good 
wishes, pure counsel, and beautiful, unselfish 
friendship. 

No one in the room with us — save the guar- 
dian spirits, each with pure, loving thoughts for 
us to give to others. What is left of her lies 
in another room. The door is just ajar. All 
is still — very still in there. We listen and 
hear the tickino^ of the clock — nothinG: more. 

Let us see I Twenty years ago we sat, as 
now, in a room much like this, while a friend, 
or the temple in Avhich he once dwelt, rested in 
a room adjoining. We were then as now in the 
presence of death. Then we were not at rest 
as now. The wind howled without. We were 
afraid. There seemed then to come a shadow 
of terror from the "waiting-room." 

Were you ever afraid to be with the dead ? 




" This was her room. O 1 Memories I Wherever the eye rests there is 
something to remind us of the absent one." — See puije 351. 



Put Them Aiuay. 251 

Did you ever fear to be alone with death ? If 
so, we pity you, if your fcaraud sufferings were 
like ours in the years agone, before there came 
about us a light as came to one long since — as 
comes to many who are deserving. But to- 
night we are not afraid. Why should we be ? 
There is nothing there to harm us. Only a 
lesson — that our home is not here. While we 
work, she is at rest. While we listen to the 
ticking of the clock, as Time marks those who 
have "gone home," she is waiting on the shore 
for the one whose very heart, soul and life, she 
won by her purity and kindness, while here to 
bless him with her love and Heaven-born influ- 
ence. 

Others mourn with us. They sleep in restless 
beds, to waken in tearful sorrow while we keep 
wiitch of the flying hours, each laden with souls 
going from here to the beautiful Laud of the 
Leal. 

This was her room. O ! Memories ! Wher- 



252 Put Them Aivay. 

ever the eye rests there is something to remind 
us of the absent one. There is a little watch- 
case nearly finished, as she left it until her re- 
covery ! There is a book in which she read but 
three days ago. Here is a little ribbon worn 
in her hair, which we kiss with tear-wet eyes. 
She has gone ! It is so still here ! It is so 
lonesome for those who are left alone to look at 
the little articles worn or used by the absent 
ones. We pity, O ! so deeply — those who 
weep, and watch, and pray — those who are 
left to wait in the storms of life, while the loved 
one waits on the distant sunny shore. 

There is a slipper once worn by her — a 
glove — a thimble once worn upon the finger 
now so cold and lifeless. In that little desk are 
letters and scraps, and kind words from others 
to her. In that little jewel-box is a ring, and a 
few other articles more precious than wealth, 
for they were hers. All about the room we see 
her still ! 



Put Them Away. 253 

O, Father in Heaven — why is she not 
here, with her kind words ^ her pure love — 
her eyes so full of beautiful language ? Why 
cannot those who love go home together when 
so true to each other they walk the paths of 
life here? When we must part some day, if 
only for a time, why do we not live better, 
purer, truer, and more loving -for each other 
than for self? We can not find our way or live 
our life alone so well as with a heart united. 

Then, good angel ; merciful Death ! come for 
those who are left to mourn, and bear us to 
them, from pain to ease — from tears to smiles 
— from grief, to joy — from separation to unit- 
ing. Then will you be a welcome — welcome — 
welcome visitor, and we reach forth to call you 
to us, as a babe reaches for the hands that are 
to bear it to the bosom of love. 

On the walls are pictures she arranged. She 
made everything so homelike. All about are 
evidences of her work and care, for good 



254 Put Them Away. 

women are so much more thoughtful than most 
men. Here and there are evidences that she 
lived and loved. Garments she wore till it 
seems now as if a portion of her life were left 
therein, so much did she individualize everj^- 
thing about her. 

See there ! A necklace worn about her neck 
since months and months ago, when joy filled 
the heart of the one who placed it there as she 
said — 

" I thank you so much for it ! " We heard 
her say it — and she knew the one who gave it 
to her was happ}^, because she was. What 
makes the tears come so ? 8he has gone — but 

SHE IS HERE ! t 

Put them carefully away ! These sacred 
reminders of past happiness. Let no rough 
hand disturb them. Put them all away, wet 
with tears, and when tired of this battle of life, 
look at them, think of the absent one, thank 
God that there is a beautiful Land of the Leal, 



Put Them Away. 255 

where those who truly loved on earth will meet, 
and live, and rest, and walk and work delight- 
fully together ; where thought is the implement 
and minds of men the field of labor for ages 
and ages to come. 

So, welcome Death. Welcome the Dawn ! 

For what is death but life ? The opening of 
a door through which loved ones go to better 
and brighter lands — to wait for our coming. 
Then we will put away these things we have 
looked at and wept over, and put away that 
terrible idea of a bigoted, ignorant past, that 
Death is dreadful, for it is not, only to those 
who are educated to fealty to man more than 
to God, and to be content with ideas more 
than principles, without which there could be 
no God, no creation, no progression — no Eter- 
nity — no rest beyond the final Saturday Night. 




CHAPTER XXV. 

HOW SOME POOR PEOPLE ARE VERY RICH^ 

HIS Saturday Night we are very tired, 
and weary, and nervous, and lone- 
some ; for the work of the week sat 
with unusual severity upon brain and body. 
Once, when younger than now, we never 
counted the days nor the weeks. But now we 
do. Each day is one less ! Each night we are 
nearer the wonderful morning ! Each Saturday 
night we are so much nearer the separation, for 
a time, from that earthly love and beaccn 
guidance which every true man has hung in his 
heart to love, adore, and confide in. 

And each day counts for or against us. As 

25G 



Holo Some Poor People Are Very Rich. 257 

we near the end of the race we try to make up 
for lost time, but too often our strensfth has 
been spent till we stumble and fall, never to 
rise till the race be lost to us and won by 
another. 

We have tried all the week to be good, and 
kind, but it was harder work than usual. We 
had so much work "to do. Little thiu2:s have 
bothered and worried us ; at best we are only 
human. Those we called friends have lied to 
us, and forgotten promises. But we have not 
broken foitli with them. So we dare look 
them in the face, as they dare not do by us. 
How good it is that we are not to answer for 
the sins or misdeeds of others ! 

And yet we are happy to-night. There are 
others more wear}'- than we are, and with no 
one to love them — there are those who have 
no golden-tinted hope of love on earth or rest 
Over There. There are those for whom lovinsr 
eyes are not looking — some loving heart not 
beating — some life running so close, even, and 



258 IIoio Some Poor JPeojjle Are Very E^ch. 

beautiful in with theirs, from here to the very 
face of a smiling God, whose greatest reward 
is rest and happiness. Not so with us — so 
we are happy. 

And we are glad to-night to think that thou- 
sands and tens of thousands often multiplied, 
all over the land, who have toiled and been 
perplexed all the week as we have, can rest and 
sleep this Saturday Night, if we must work. 

To-night, as we were coming up the steps 
leading to our private rooms, opposite the 
cooling fountain in the little park before our 
windows, a policeman handed us a piece of 
paper, on which was written, with a lead 
pencil : — 

Saturday Afternoon. 
AVill you please caU at No. 12 — Tenth street, room soventeon, 
third floor back, sometime this evening to see two persons who cannot 
see you? If asking too much, don't come, for we are poor people. 

Room 17 — third floor, back. Half-past 
nine at night. 



Hoiv Some Poor People Are Very Rich. i259 

" Come in ! " 

Now, good friends, and especially little boys 
who wish to be useful nieu, and little girls who 
wish to be good women', we will tell you of our 
visit. 

We went to a tenement house. Twenty-one 
families live in that crowded five-story brick 
house. Poor families they are all, too. 
Somebody said, " Come in." So we entered, 
to find an old man and an old woman there. 
The man told us he "was fifty-seven. The 
woman said she was but fifty-three. And 
these old people were both blind. No wonder 
they could not see us ! They lived in a room 
twenty by eighteen feet. Two windows look- 
ing out into a small yard. Two windows 
under which two cats were squalling — "just 
as the}'- always do when we want it still," said 
the old lady. 

In one corner of the room was a bed. In 
another corner was a sort of lounge, on which 



260 How Some Poor PeoiDle Are Very R'siJi. 

a person could sleep. Two chairs were yl the 
room, and a little half-round table up by the 
wall. And a few clothes hanging on the wall. 

The old man sat by a window smoking a 
pipe. The old lady sat by the other window 
smoking another pipe. Out in the street chil- 
dren were romping, though the night was 
hot. 

"Good evening, friends. This is room 17, 
and you sent a note to-day by a man who gave 
it to a policeman to hand to us when he saw 
us." 

" This is room 17. Are you Mr. Pomeroy ? " 

"Yes." 

"We hope you will pardon us, sir — but 
John said you would come if we wanted you 
to, so I thought you would come, and we sent 
for you. It was so good of you to come. 
This will be a new day for us old folks to 
count from." 



How Some Poor Peojple Are Very Rich. 261 

"Thanks, good woman. Who is John — 
and what can we do for you?" 

"Oh, nothing, sir, only we wanted to hear 
your voice so we could know just what kind 
of a man you are. John is our lioarder. He 
is night-watch in a store down town, and goes 
on at nine and stays till six, sir." 

" And you old people are blind ? " 

"Yes, we are blind, but la! that's nothin' 
when you once get used to it, but it did hurt a 
good deal at first." 

" How long have you been blind ? " 

"Nineteen years, and Betsey has .been blind 
twenty-four years, as she was long afore I 
married her." 

" Then you never saw her ? " 

"No; but I know just how she looks, for a 
blind man can see, if he hain't got eyes ! " 

" What do you do for a living ? " 

" I sell matches on the sidewalk down Broad- 



262 How Some Poor People Are Very Rich. 

way, and Betsey sells 'em up town, and we 
keep a boarder besides." 

" Does he j)ay for his board ? " 

"What? old John pay for his board? In- 
deed he does ! " 

" How much ? " 

" He pays all. We all of us gets the stuff 
to eat, and old John cooks it for us night and 
morning. But Betsey and I pay the rent. 
Old John cooks and sweeps, and Sunday he 
does the washing, except what we do. And he 
reads us the papers, and we know all that is 
going on. He reads to us a little at night be- 
fore supper, and after — then he goes to 
watch, and we talk over what he has read." 

" Do you and Betsey love each other? ' 

"Yes — better than all the world. It was a 
good day when old John brought us together, 
and we love him for it." 

" What do you do when one or the other is 
sick?" 



IIoio Some Poor People Are Very Rich. 263 

" Oh , we get along — take care of each 
other. But we don't get sick as other folks 
do, for we don't eat such rich food, and have 
better health." 

"And you are happy here, both of you?" f 

^' Indeed we are. Old John's eyes do 'Jfoj. |ill ■ 
of us." 

" Are you a Mason ? " 

" I am — but I don't go to Lodge since I am 
blind." 

"And you wanted us to call here? What 
for?" 

" Oh, we wanted you to come. Old John 
said you would come, but I didn't hardly be- 
lieve it. I wish we had something to offer 
you." 

" You have — a kind welcome. And noth- 
ing on- earth is more God-given or beautiful in 
its memories." 

"Well, you are welcome. But I want you 
to tell how you write such chapters each Satur- 



2G4 How Some Poor People Are Very Rich. 

clay Night? And they don't sound like other 
reading. Somebody must help you ? " 

"Somebody does." 

"Who is it — a man or a woman? It must 
be a woman — and yet it can't be ! " 

" It is'iieither — but a beautiful thought — a 
goMeii^faced presence, tliat comes to us with a 
troop of followers from the Land of the Leal 

— a beautiful spirit who makes us happy — 
who keeps us from danger, who comes when 
we call, and tells us that we shall surely rest 
Over There, if we strive to do right here, and 
live to our line of light and belief in duty." 

" Yes, yes ! I know now ! Just as I thought 

— as I knew — for some one comes when I 
call — when we call. And we are very happy. 
We shall have eyes Over There — but eyes are 
nothing if one don't use them." 

" Quite right. And you are happy here ? " 
" Yes ; with the help of old John, for which 
we give him a home. We have but few 



How Some Poor Poojple Are Very Rich. 265 

friends, but they are good ones. And we 
don't see much to annoy us or make us en- 
vious. We don't bother about the fashions. 
And then we don't care what others say of us 
— we live for each other, and are always 
happy." 

"But you are blind!" 

" Yes — but that is nothing. It hurt me at 
first, but I learned to accept a fact as such, and 
when one has learned that lesson he has won 
a victory." 

For an hour we sat and talked thus with our 
blind friends. And it was a beautiful lesson 
we learned. That people can be happy, no 
matter if blind and poor. That living, not for 
the world, but for those who love us,'brings*to 
the heart the greatest reward. And above all — 
that one who learns to accej^t a fact as sicc^i has 
won a victory. 

And to-night, as we think how much we 



266 Hoio Some Poor People Are Very Rich. 

have to be thankful for — how much, more 
blessed we are, as the world counts, than this 
poor old couple, we feel light of heart, rested, 
and strong. In their home is no unkindness 
— no cross words — no selfish indifference, but 
a deep, earnest love for each other — a desire 
to make the most of circumstances, confident 
that after this stru2:2i:le for existence will come 
a beautiful rest with those who love us aud are 
beloved, beyond the weary Saturday Night. 




CHAPTER XXVI. 



THE LOVED AND THE ABSENT. 




NOTHER drop from the bucket of 
time into the vapory ameth^'^st — 
another week lost here to be pinned 
as a star Up There to light the Heaven. All 
these weeks — each of these Saturday Nights 
— are but stars, each one adding to the glory 
of' the future, as one by one tfiey are lifted 
home. His record of Time, to last through 
eternity. Some stars are brighter than others, 
as some weeks went Home laden with less sin, 
evil, wrong, selfishness, and heart-blackness 
than others. 

To-night we are all alone in our room, but 

267 



268 The Loved and the Absent, 

not "in thought. We have silent company. 
Without, there is the hum, the noise, the 
bustle of city life and restless humanity. The 
air is keen and cold as man's charity. Within 
all is light, comfort, and attraction. The fire 
burns in the grate — the black coal turning to 
white ashes as our acts are purified by the fire 
of trouble, sorrow, struggling and agony of 
the heart wrestling for the prize it craves. 

The carpet on the floor — the rug on which 
our kitten sleeps, seem warm and earnest in 
their colors, like the life of an earnest man, 
whose heart-work carpets the floor of life, so 
that others may walk with less noise, and rest 
thereon more comfortably. 

The chandelier overhead throws its mellow- 
tinted light all about, just as kind words and 
honest eyes light and warm the heart. The 
pictures on the walls — the keepsakes every- 
where to be seen seem sociable, as if eacl^ 
wanted to tell us the history of the ones who 



The Loved and the. Absent. 269 

have thus kindly remembered us. Who would 
not be happy thus surrounded? All these 
beautiful things won by honest labor. Better 
these evidences of striving, than a life of dis- 
sipation , with good to none 1 

But something is lacking- to-night. We all 
lack something ! The loved and the absent. 
By wondrous power we can go to them, if they 
cannot come to us. And we will go. 

Here is written evidence — a little scrap of 
paper on which was written ''Once upon a 
time," and we will go on a visit to our darling. 
You cannot go with us. The smiles and the 
tears — the hopes, joys, griefs, sorrows, and 
inner life of those we will soon visit are not 
f(n' you to know. 

Home again ! 

We saw her — but she did not see us — yet 
she wakened with a start, and tried to listen, 
to look light into the darkness as we. bent over 



270 The Loved, and the Absent 

her couch. We went because it was lonesome 
staying alone when the heart is away ! We 
had light — light from the window, burning in 
Heaven, placed there and watched by one who 
for years has thrown that deep, clear, won- 
drous light full across, and far along our path- 
way to guide us safely where others often fall. 
Wer went as thousands who read this chapter 
wish they could go to their lo\^d and absent 
ones, but cannot see the way because they have 
not thrown the shade of bigotry from across 
the soul. 

As. thousands of the good, the true, the 
earnest-hearted, the fearless, loving, caring, 
working ones wish they could go in a body to 
visit their loved and absent ones. 

We sav7 her. 

We talked with her as she slept. We wiped 
a tear from her eyes, and she wakened with a 
trembling start — we passed a hand over her 
face never so lightly, and again she slept. 



The Loved and the Absent. 271 

Did she know we were there ? Ask her ! 
She knew somebody was there, though the 
darkuess was like a pall to her vision. 

And she slept. We held her hand in ours. 
We" held her to our heart. We saw the 
tfouble go for the time :&'om her spirit. Then 
we lifted her carefully in our arms and kissed 
her closed eyelids, that when she awakened 
our image might never pass from her. And 
she did not awaken. Thus light and pure is 
the kiss of true heart-love given in person or 
spirit. Then we kissed her hands a dozen 
times, that the touch of none other might be as 
ours — then we whispered that one dearest of 
all words, Darling, in her ear, and her face 
responded to the joy of her heart thus given 
to bask in the sunshine of love. Then we left 
kisses on her lips — sentinels to guard the 
heart none other may win, and noiselessly 
departed as we came. 

Do you ever think of your loved and absent 



272 The Loved and the Absent. 

ones? Do you hunger for that heart-rest 
which gives joy? Arc you never lonesome 
when the loved ones are absent? The loved 
one — the one best loved of all ? Do you not 
often wish that one -were near you at home, or 
elsewhere, to enjoy with you the beautiful of 
life — the kiss of love — the touch so filled 
with God's electricity? Are there not times 
when the hours drag — when you so long to 
be with the absent ? 

Or are you so lost, so crushed, so wrapped 
in selfishness as to be content to live half a life 
without the bliss which follows making others 
happy? No — no — none of our readers are 
thus lost — thus storm-tossed on the clouds, 
their present unloving and their future but 
guess-work I Are you at times weary, heart- 
sick, needing rest to soul, to brain, to 
thought? Would you visit the loved and the 
absent — giving life and light to both hearts ? 

You can if you will ! If you live aright. 



The Loved and the Absent. 273 

Not like trembling, cringing, terror-stricken, 
uneducated, bigoted slaves to that narrow- 
minded education you too often call religion. 
Would you have a beautiful home? Then, 
good brother, strive to make it so, for you are 
the master if you so will it. 

There is something glorious in being a man. 
In feeling in your heart that you are true, 
earnest, honest, and of use, if not to others, 
at least to yourself. It is the germ of power 
to control yourself — to keep your heart 
warm, your words from roughness, especially 
to the loved ones — your brain cool when bat- 
tling with life — your mind and body well and 
whole, with vigorous manhood, gentle touch, 
and love's electricity, when comes the hour for 
home joys, and communion with the loved. 
• It is glorious to be able to sustain yourself 
— to know you can .walk where danger threat- 
ens — can run where others grope — can live 
where others but stay — can be loved and 

18 



274 The Loved and the Absent. 

pitied, aud cared for as God's siinsbiue and 
moist dew cares for the tender plant — can be 
loved, and held to the heart all the home 
hours, while many are but endured by the 
home ones your dissipation has made sick at 
heart and desert-lifed forever. 

Those who are unloving here, will be un- 
loved over there. Those who fool themselves 
away here will not be counted over there, 
more than the worm-eaten bud which drops to 
the gutter in June will be a flower in July ! 

Would you have others to love you? Then 
be kind, liberal, forgiving, charitable, pleasant- 
faced, and considerate of the feelings of 
others. "Would you have others look to your 
coming with anxious delight, glad when with 
you — lonely when away ? Then be a man — 
simply yourself just as God intended. Do 
not be forced by education, dissipation, or self- 
ishness, to grow out of yourself into the mor- 
bidness of lust, thirst, love for power, or desire 



The Loved and the Absent. 275 

for dissipation till all the glorious, the man- 
like, the good, the godlike be frozen out. 
All this is with yourself. For as you will — 
as you elect for yourself — as you have the 
honor to be — as you have the will to dare, so 
in' exact proportion will you have the power to 
accomplish. And thus can we all become bet- 
ter, stronger, more loving and more with those 
loved, but often absent when comes the morn 
of the morrow, or the resting houp^ of 
Saturday Night. 




Vl Q 









<^ -%. 





^vr>c>"^' 







^^ -t, 



'bV" 




"^0" 















«^^^ 



















^^^^^ 







*&- c 1 » -< 




^9 ^. 













'>0^ 










V '?». 



VVtRT 
BCXXBINOtNC 

(ul\— Aug 198? 



^X^fl-c 







^^'% 



